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."

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"Naturally. We'll drive out there first thing in the morning Christmas day." He slips his thumbs into the belt-loops of his pants and slouches his way over to the couch, where he waits for her to join him once she's gotten the jumping up and down out of her system.

"Just come with me. Make it so I'm not spending Christmas visiting Ben or something." God, that's the most depressing thought he's had in a while. But it's true, in a way: this is the first Christmas he'll be spending without the bizarre ersatz holiday routines he and his mother kept up. Really, he was the one enforcing them, his mother just simpering and whining with no efficacy when they weren't, but Jason realizes with a pang that this will be the first December 25th in nearly two decades where the morning doesn't start with him shouting up the stairs for Miss Quentin to make herself presentable, without serving the food onto plates for the four of them and insisting everyone eat it and not make it so he wasted his money on food for the servants.

And, absently, he realizes that Swann's probably sending Ben a gift of some sort too, even though Ben couldn't tell the holiday from a hole in the ground.

She trots after Jason, still clutching Marcel, and curls up next to him, her chin perched on his shoulder as she keeps looking at him adoringly. "You'd be with me even if we didn't go anywhere," she sighs, letting her dog rest in her lap. "We couldn't spend Christmas apart."

Her gifts for Ben have already begun to accumulate at his new home, hundreds of shiny baubles and toys for him to play with, sweets for him to eat. A six foot tall stuffed bear with chinchilla fur for his bedroom. She sees no reason that relocation should put any damper on his holidays, regardless of his actual awareness of them. Surely the caretakers are decorating and making sure he knows what's going on.

"It's going to be so lovely."

It's true, and there's a comfort in that, in the strange solidarity between them. If there's one thing they can count on, it's each other - not to be strong or good or make good decisions, but to at least be there, unconditionally.

And at this point, Swann's more Ben's caretaker than Jason ever was. The home has started corresponding directly with her for any questions about Ben's care, knowing full well that the most they'll get from Jason tends to be a curt text, if he doesn't just ignore them entirely.

"It'll be alright. You can bring the pets, too. We can even go shopping for little snow jackets for them if you think that would make for good Christmas pictures."

He's laying it on a bit thick, but he wants to hold onto this fleeting happiness for just a bit longer before he admits what's gotten under his skin.

She doesn't mind, answering their questions -- she's pretty sure she now knows more about Ben's condition than Jason ever did, having read all his files for the assessments and paperwork. Jason had only ever showed up when he was required as the legal guardian.

"Ohhh, I can have matching ones made for all of us!" she coos, because Jason should really know better than to put something that cutesy in her head. Especially because she already has all of his measurements. "Marcel has winter clothes, but Pascal needs them anyway, he needs a coat and boots and sweaters. Maybe a hat and scarf set, he would be so cute in baby blue. Or they can be elves! I think I have a sexy Ms. Claus outfit in storage somewhere, from a holiday special one year."

Swann kisses his cheek and snuggles closer, even as Jason is probably rethinking every life decision he's ever made, now that he might be Santa to a pair of small, pink elves.

Jason's knowledge of Ben's condition: "my brother's more stupid than a parakeet and needs constant supervision to keep from wetting himself, and he's still in the upper register of Compson siblings".

"He has fur, you know. Aren't tigers from the polar Districts?" It's sad how little Jason knows about geography, but it's far from uncommon for a Capitolite. The people who actually do know where tigers originally came from are probably few and far between in all of Panem, if not extinct entirely. Jason's never been told about continents other than this one, and certainly has never been encouraged to ask. "Maybe he'll just need a windbreaker."

He kisses her back. He'll wear the stupid matching outfit if it makes her happy. God knows he's done more embarrassing and unpleasant things kowtowing to his mother or, worse, to Sponsors when he tried to get funds for his Tributes before the current furlough.

"But definitely pack the Ms. Claus outfit for one of the nights. I don't have a matching outfit, so I might just have to go it nude when you dress up."

"I thought they were from deserts." Swann knows just as little, though she's retained a lot of school information that many of her peers have forgotten, probably because she had so few friends when she was young, and spent a lot of time reading to fill the void. "If that's the case, he'll need a mink coat!" They're going to have to look this up.

She pinches his chin and smirks, laughing a little. "Oh? I didn't know you have a thing for Ms. Claus. Never struck me as the type, really." Crawling into his lap, she slides her arms over her shoulders and locks her fingers together behind him. "I can make sure you get some of my cookies..."

"Maybe they're from jungles and we're both wrong." Jason shrugs. "Will he be allowed to eat the minks? I read somewhere that tigers are supposed to eat meat and not plants or potatoes or anything like that."

Look, he's the peak of Capitol learnedness.

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. "Maybe just for you in lingerie, instead of Ms. Claus. But I do..."

His voice lowers, gets serious for a moment, "I do have something to talk to you about it. It's Sinclair again. I know you're no happier to talk about him than I am."

"He gets meat." It's true, Pascal mostly eats steak and chicken, prime cuts feed to him raw on bone china dishes. He does enjoy the occasional scoop of mashed potatoes, though. "I don't want him eating random minks. Do tigers even eat minks? I don't think they do."

She thinks he's going to make a joke about chimneys or candy canes or mistletoe, and her face falls just the tiniest bit when he changes pace so quickly. Brings up Sinclair. She thought they'd reached some kind of agreement or something.

"What about him?"

"They're bigger than minks. There's no reason not to eat them, except that they're stringy and tasteless. At least, that's what I've been told every time they're not on the menu someplace."

He strokes her hair as if that could bring the smile back to her face.

"It's not about you, so far as I know. He threatened me today. He's been watching my accounts and thinks there are discrepancies."

It doesn't bring the smile back to her face. In fact, she looks blank for several long beats of silence, blinking, the thoughts firing through her mind that she can hardly sort through them.

"What kind of discrepancies?" she finally asks, slowly. She knows that Jason's finances are shady at best, were even before she added her own layer to it, but she doesn't know how bad it was. Never wanted to know. She feels like his answer determines whether or not she can fix it -- of course, she can fix it either way, with money, but she's well aware Jason won't allow it. He won't want her to interfere and try her hand with Sinclair, either, but she can do that less obviously than just transferring a dizzying amount of assi into his accounts.

"Your discrepancies. My discrepancies." Her little scheme with Ben's trust, Jason's own hand at embezzling Tribute funds, Maury's account, forged checks from his mother's old account - by now, there isn't a single account in Jason's demesne that isn't tainted somehow by fraud.

"He offered me lenience if I gave it all back." Which Jason won't, of course. Won't let Swann do for him, either.

"Then we'll give it all back." She's not an idiot, she knows he'll say no, but it's so easy, she has to try. There's no reason not to just do what Gus wants, not if it'll make their lives easier, if it's something she can do with a single phone call. Her eyes are wide, like she just wants Jason to say yes, to let her take care of this and make it go away.

Jason, instead, continues to disappoint Swann.

"No, we won't." He shakes his head, then exhales loudly. "I'll take care of it. I'll take care of him. I have my own means. I don't always need you to swoop in and rescue me."

He can't help but sound bitter and defensive. It isn't at her, but right now she's the easiest target. Some of the old vitriol comes back, the venom that was purged out of their fights so long ago.

"It's not "swooping in and rescuing you" if it was my doing in the first place!" she argues, her hackles raising at the tone of his voice. She clambers out of his lap, and stands up, approximately the height in her heels as he is sitting down. "It was my idea, and how can you possibly take care of it? What means are you talking about?"

"It's not just your doing," Jason snips, knowing that both of them are aware that he was engaging in shady-at-best financial practices before they even got together. He stands up too, folding his arms and twisting on one foot to pace away. "And I said I'll figure it out. You don't need to go getting involved, that's exactly what Sinclair wants out of all this anyway."

"But it was my idea that got caught!" She's so frustrated, and she doesn't know what to do, watching him walk back and forth, her little fists balled at her side. "What does it matter if that's what he wants? If it makes it go away, why does it matter? He gets his money back or whatever, and it's gone! Jason, please be reasonable, think about it!"

Jason stops and turns, looking like he's about to kick over the ottoman or chuck something at the wall. "I said I'll figure it out! Don't you trust me to do at least that? Or is your faith in me worth about as much as my mother's estate?"

"What is there to figure out? He wants his money back, Jason, and you don't have it! It has nothing to do with what I think of you, and everything to do with the fact that you can't make millions of assi appear out of thin air!"

She loves Jason, loves him so dearly, but he doesn't have time to fritter away with a plan here. He can't resort to making money appear through fraud and shuffling, because now the money's the problem, and Swann doesn't see an easy solution for him. It's not something he can fix with a scheme.

"At least let me talk to him!"

"I'll come up with it, and the fact that you think I can't tells me all I need to know about what you think of me."

If it weren't that winding cord at the center of him, that fraudulent sense of self-sufficiency and value, that were under attack, he would bow to her pragmatism. But instead he digs his heels in, and he slams the door on the way to her bedroom, because to leave the apartment would mean having to go past her again.

"What? What do I think about you because you can't do something impossible?"

But by the time she finishes speaking, he's holed himself up in her bedroom, and she lets out a shriek of frustration, stamping her feet into the carpet as hard as she can. She winds up just throwing herself onto the sofa, howling angrily into one pillow as she throws and kicks the others to the floor.

He stays in her bedroom a long while, cursing the tickets on vacation together, cursing her, cursing his mother's estate, cursing Gus, everything but himself as he builds up a new narrative for how he's the victim and the most pitiable of the lot with so much ledger-ink on his hands.

Eventually he cracks the door and tries to summon Eta.

Swann eventually cries herself out, as she tends to, and Eta puts her in a more comfortable position, covering her up with a throw blanket. When Jason cracks the door, she's milling around and cleaning, keeping an eye on Swann as she dusts and picks up all the pillows.

It would be too much for her to ignore Jason entirely, so Eta does go to the opened door, but she looks distinctly irritated and disappointed, clutching the feather duster tightly.

"I'm going to slip out. Help me with that," he tells Eta, hoping that her Avox programming (how long has it been since it was touched up?) will override her loyalty to Swann. He slides out the door.

"I'll call her in the morning and apologize."

Eta certainly won't stop him, and she just motions toward the front door, because he doesn't need help anyway -- Swann's knocked out, and he knows how hard of a sleeper she is. Following him, Eta nods in a not-entirely-sincere way, and puts her hand on the door to close it behind him.

She wonders if it might be time to send another gift to Sinclair. Swann never remembers how many she's sent out or to whom. It goes on the list of things to do in the morning.

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Such Convenience in Regret After the Fact [Closed]

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