Stephanus "Stephen" Reagan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
capitolprivilege) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2016-03-22 06:12 pm
capitolprivilege) wrote in thecapitol2016-03-22 06:12 pm
open!
Who| Stephen Reagan and anyone
What| Business and pleasure as usual on the home front
Where| The office of the undersecretary of the Minister of the Future, and also a cafe
When| As backdated as you like, honestly; Stephen's habits haven't changed much over the past few months. Basically, the new year to just after the propo he was in goes live.
Warnings/Notes| Stephen Reagan being disgustingly bigoted.
A:
Stephen Reagan's desk isn't fancy or expansive, but that's all right. He's not sure what he would keep in it, anyway; all his files and all his schedules and all his messages are all done electronically, over the tablet that never seems to leave his side these days. It's more of a workstation than a desk, letting Stephen hook his tablet into its socket and spread electronic copies of forms and documents over the smooth white surface in front of him. It's out of the way, sheltered from the view of passersby by a half-wall, and generally, it's pretty quiet. Stephen's reading with pursed lips, looking over the morning's minor catastrophes, tapping his stylus against the desk as he debates whether or not this needs Ms. Dolar's attention. His suit is clean and neat and well-cut, his makeup subtle, all glitter kept to a minimum. He looks youthful but sober.
B:
It's nice to have a job that, by and large, ends in the evening. Sure, Stephen's taken work home a few times, and sometimes he's got to field things that come up unexpectedly, but it's not the same kind of twenty-four-seven being an Escort was. There's nothing on his plate today that can't be done tomorrow morning, so Stephen, still in the suit he wore to work, is sitting with a glass of wine on the patio of a cafe, watching the sun go down behind the Capitol's glittering cityscape, taking time to relax. In some moments, it's hard to believe the Capitol is really at war. Of course, Stephen never doubts the reality of it for a second, but shouldn't peaceful moments like this be impossible with Panem tearing itself apart? It doesn't seem right to him. His feet are stretched in front of him and his elbow is leaned over the back of the chair. He watches the passersby, alone at his table, separated from the street only by a thin wrought-iron fence that's barely waist height.
What| Business and pleasure as usual on the home front
Where| The office of the undersecretary of the Minister of the Future, and also a cafe
When| As backdated as you like, honestly; Stephen's habits haven't changed much over the past few months. Basically, the new year to just after the propo he was in goes live.
Warnings/Notes| Stephen Reagan being disgustingly bigoted.
A:
Stephen Reagan's desk isn't fancy or expansive, but that's all right. He's not sure what he would keep in it, anyway; all his files and all his schedules and all his messages are all done electronically, over the tablet that never seems to leave his side these days. It's more of a workstation than a desk, letting Stephen hook his tablet into its socket and spread electronic copies of forms and documents over the smooth white surface in front of him. It's out of the way, sheltered from the view of passersby by a half-wall, and generally, it's pretty quiet. Stephen's reading with pursed lips, looking over the morning's minor catastrophes, tapping his stylus against the desk as he debates whether or not this needs Ms. Dolar's attention. His suit is clean and neat and well-cut, his makeup subtle, all glitter kept to a minimum. He looks youthful but sober.
B:
It's nice to have a job that, by and large, ends in the evening. Sure, Stephen's taken work home a few times, and sometimes he's got to field things that come up unexpectedly, but it's not the same kind of twenty-four-seven being an Escort was. There's nothing on his plate today that can't be done tomorrow morning, so Stephen, still in the suit he wore to work, is sitting with a glass of wine on the patio of a cafe, watching the sun go down behind the Capitol's glittering cityscape, taking time to relax. In some moments, it's hard to believe the Capitol is really at war. Of course, Stephen never doubts the reality of it for a second, but shouldn't peaceful moments like this be impossible with Panem tearing itself apart? It doesn't seem right to him. His feet are stretched in front of him and his elbow is leaned over the back of the chair. He watches the passersby, alone at his table, separated from the street only by a thin wrought-iron fence that's barely waist height.
no subject
How do I get him out of here, Stephen thinks, without offending him, and without looking like I care if I offend him?
"Nothing of immediate Peacekeeper interest," he replies briskly. "If it were, you would of course be able to access it through the proper channels. If there's not a problem, Mr. Cassidy," Stephen goes on with a touch more force, "to what do I owe this visit?"
no subject
Tom does, in fact, want to suck up to a Reagan. He feels, possibly incorrectly, that he's done an admiral job brownnosing Cyrus, but now he wants the matching set.
He's building up his stores of information to make himself invaluable to either side.
"Your brother didn't seem to mind company when I paid him a visit a few months back."
no subject
For a moment, Stephen's mind goes right into the gutter. Maybe it's the way Tom says it, the way it's practically dripping with insinuation, but it makes Stephen think of the double-meaning that comes with the word company. But no, that's incredibly unlikely. Cyrus despises anyone not a born Capitolite. Stephen knows that well enough. Besides, Tom is married to Molotov Cocktease. There are at least five facts that render the idea that Black Tom Cassidy seduced Cyrus Reagan incredibly unlikely.
"You've picked an inconvenient time to do it," Stephen shoots back. "I'm going to be frank, Mr. Cassidy: a social call from you is not the most important thing I need to deal with today, not by far, and I do not have the time on my hands to entertain you."
no subject
"Oh?" Tom reads the dismissal, but tries to push just a bit further. He's curious, and like a cat, he has an allergic reaction to being told "no" to just about anything. "If you have so many important things to deal with, I'd be happy to take some off your plate if there's anything you can delegate."
no subject
He smiles politely, but there's no warmth in it, just ice. "I don't think so," Stephen says. "Now, unless there's something important you need to bring to my attention, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
no subject
"And here I was thinking we could be of some mutual benefit to each other, you with your...newfound political acumen and me with my current star power. But if you aren't interested, I can show myself out. I'll be sure to let Mr. Reagan - your brother, I mean - know how well my attempt to introduce myself went over."
no subject
"Say hello to him for me," he says, and he returns to his work.
Maybe another time, in other circumstances, Stephen could have used what Black Tom is offering. However, he's chosen to take a hard line: false prejudice against all offworlders. A tenuous alliance with Mr. Cassidy, one that would end in immediate betrayal as soon as Tom saw something to gain from it, wasn't worth modifying his act for. No, that bit of uncertainty was better avoided.
no subject
He makes sure to clack his cane REALLY LOUDLY against the floor as he exits the building, because he is an actual child.