thecapitol | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who| Cuthbert and Open
What| Extremely mature pouting and moping
Where| District 3 Suites, mostly
When| After his death and return to the Capitol
Warnings/Notes| none so far

Cuthbert Allgood is not taking his latest death well. It doesn't help that his fight with Sherlock is making the rounds in the highlight reel, and he's taking it harder than he has in the past. He hasn't talked to anyone so far, not even the avoxes who he will carry on half conversations with most of the time.

For someone who spends a lot of his time training normally he hasn't been further out of the District 3 Suites than to ride the elevator down to District 1 and back up. He hasn't even been able to get off the elevator to see someone he really wants to see.

Most people will find him wrapped up under a blanket from his room in the main District 3 eating area watching and (surprisingly) not commenting on their activities. All of this is abnormal behavior for him, not that he would notice or care at this point.

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It took him almost two days to wake up, and all he could feel was blades for several seconds before his brain registered he was alive.

He spent the third day huddled in his room, blanket wrapped around him, staring out at the city.

On the fourth day he went looking for Cuthbert.

He wasn't entirely sure why or what he wanted to say. He knew the man was back in the capitol, knew he was still alive, but something compelled him to check. As if he wouldn't be satisfied with Cuthbert's continuous existence until he had seen it for himself.

So he took the elevator for District 3 and walked in with a very false sense of confidence, immediately looking for an avox to lead him to Cuthbert's suite. Once there, he knocked soundly on the door.

He was wrapped up like a Cuthburrito and staring at his window, which he had turned to a scene of a rainy city. It was like he was trying to enhance the sense of macabre. Or just being dramatic.

"Whatever it is, I do not want it right now."

He thought an avox was in checking on him again. He wasn't angry about it, he knew it was their job to make sure he didn't die. But he certainly wasn't in the mood for it at the moment.

Sherlock pauses at the voice. Certainly Cuthbert's. He's sure of it. For a moment he considers letting that be enough, and turning around without a word and leaving the man to his thoughts, but he can't. He needs to know. For certain.

"... No, I imagine you don't," He says instead, his low baritone voice a rumble against the door. He knuckles are still braced upon the wood, but he doesn't knock again. "However, I don't plan on leaving until the door opens, so your choice."

He knows that voice all too well and it's not one that's going to get him out of bed any faster.

"If you're so damned clever, figure out how to open it yourself. Or if you'd rather, stand there and fuck yourself. I know which I'd choose."

He curls up more on himself and hopes that Sherlock doesn't actually try to open the door. The avoxes aren't letting him lock it while he's like this.

"Well you and I do not have similar masturbatory habits," Sherlock said mildly, before trying the door knob. To his surprise, it clicked open with ease and he pushed open the door.

That had been an invite, right? Totally.

He let out a breath when he saw the muss of dark hair above what appeared to be a cocoon of blankets. He was certain it was him, now, at least, and he relaxed.

Though only for a minute. What on earth had he come here to say?

"Well. Still alive, then."

... Smooth, Sherlock.

It would have been hard to hear but Cuthbert snorted at the comment about his habits. As far as he was concerned Sherlock probably only really got off reading very old books in foreign languages or just sitting and thinking about his own brilliance.

He wasn't surprised that Sherlock let himself in, after all, he knew he wasn't allowed to lock himself in at the moment. But it did give him a chance to snipe at the man who killed him, which should be considered a bonus.

"It took a man of your genius intellect to come to that conclusion, then? Oh, and I see you used your incredible talents to solve the mystery of the unlocked door."

He rolled over enough that he could look at Sherlock over the top of his makeshift blanket padding.

"You could do me the favor of stabbing me again. After that shoddy performance I would deserve to die and not return."

The digs about his intelligence pulled at his skin, but for once he did his best to ignore them. Countless times, John told him to knock first - it figured that once he had actually learned the lesson, it came back to haunt him.

"Stop being ridiculous," He said, almost a snap but as if he couldn't quite bring himself to be harsh. As if he was trying to put on harshness to... what? Save his ego? Pretend at some sort of normalcy? "You had no trouble humiliating me. I was relatively gentle."

Cuthbert turned away again, looking toward his rainy cityscape window without really seeing it.

"I was brought into this world ridiculous, I see no reason to stop now. And I humiliated thee because that is my job. I'm here to kill people, you're just here to be killed."

He hunched further into himself as he spoke, or as much as he wrapped up state would allow.

"I've forgotten my father's face."

From the choked way he said it, this was by far the worst part of it for him. It should be easy enough for Sherlock to infer the shame that phrase carried with it.

Sherlock never was good with emotional situations, let alone one like this. The layers involved were well more than too much for him. From his side, a good dose of guilt - from Cuthberts, depression far deeper than he had a remedy for. And yet, he felt partially responsible. (Not wholly, but partially.)

He cleared his throat and stepped over to the window as well, though he didn't look at Cuthbert. He didn't know what to say about the father comment. (Talk about a wealth of feelings and daddy issues that he just knew he didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole.) But he did have to say something.

"It was a mistake." He is what he finally said. As close as an apology as Cuthbert was ever going to get, and his face was hard. "Though you're wrong. I was brought to kill as much as you were, only I refused."

"I had thought myself in at least a semblance of control, and it appears I was wrong." He stepped back from the window, glancing over at Cuthbert's pathetic form once again.

He didn't really like him, and he didn't exactly pity him, but if one of them had to be a killer, Sherlock knew which he'd prefer it would be.

"It will be all to easy for you, I think, next time."

After admitting it was a mistake most of his words just roll off Cuthbert, noises with no purpose. He doesn't really think Sherlock is here for any reason other than to make him feel worse, and he has enough self pity and internalized hatred to roll in at the moment. But the last part gets through.

"Are you asking me to kill you the next time we're in the arena? You actually seemed to have some fight in you this time."

Which just makes it worse for him, really. To think that when Sherlock was actually trying he killed Cuthbert so easily. At least that thought brings some emotion to Bert's face, even if it is just anger and petulance. He turns so his blanket lump is facing the wall instead of the window.

If there were awards for petulance, Sherlock would win them, every year, without fail. It was sort of interesting to actual witness a contender for his throne, though.

"No. I'm saying if we do meet, I won't fight back." He doesn't really care if it is making Cuthbert feel worse (because what were feelings anyway), but he wanted to make a point.

"If it's all the same, I'd rather simply avoid you completely."

Except, you know, like now. And probably in the arena. And probably-- oh, well, it was meant well.

Cuthbert has many years of practice (although if some of his teachers could see him now they would be more likely to tan his hide than sympathize with him.)

"If they even let me into the arena again after that sorry performance."

He isn't even going to address the issues with that last statement.

Sherlock rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, even tilting his head to go with the roll.

"Oh please. If they let us out of the games so easily I would have been free months ago. Or dead. If they didn't want you here you'd simply never come back." He didn't mention the fact that he was actually relieved that Cuthbert had come back - somehow murder seemed a good deal less important when you could chat to your victim afterwards.

If the Capitol hadn't regenerated him...

Cuthbert sighs. It's obvious to him that he's being dramatic, but it's hard to stop when he's on a roll like this.

"You are very pathetic."

He tries to smile up at Sherlock but it feels weird and probably looks awkward. It's at least a step in the right direction.

Perhaps it's a weird thing to take as a compliment. Usually Sherlock didn't take any sort of slight very well, but there was this strange little part of him that was please that Cuthbert didn't really consider him capable of murder, despite having murdered him.

Pleased that someone didn't think of him as a psychopath.

So his lips twitched awkwardly in response and he only half smothered the smile as his hands clasped behind his back and he looked out the window instead.

"I'll take that as a compliment, considering," He said, a little haughtily. "I work very hard to ensure it."

He wouldn't be a psychopath in Bert's world, for better or worse. So Cuthbert had never thought of him that way. But he didn't have a whole lot of warm fuzzy feelings for a man who deliberately avoided fighting, which Sherlock definitely struck him as.

"You work hard to be soft?"

He was clearly amused by the concept.

"I work hard to be the only one to dictate my actions," Sherlock said smoothly instead. He could hardly claim to be soft, he thought. It had different connotations.

"I refuse to be manipulated and I refuse to bend to expectations unless I wish to. If the world expects me to be a killer, I see no reason to appease them."

"So you're fighting just so you can tell yourself you're not like them and sleep well at night? Just by being here you've been manipulated and used. It should make me no worse of a man for taking advantage of the skills I already possess."

It was easier to argue with Sherlock when he felt like he was in the right. So he was going back to what he knew, the things he couldn't question about himself.

"I could care less what you do, Cuthbert," Sherlock said with a solemn finality.

"As I said. You'll find your work easier next arena. As my particular set of skills is useless here, I see no reason to change myself into something to fit their whims. You can go on killing as much as you like."

"I might prefer not to meet you at all next time around. Just see to it that if you and I don't cross paths, that your partner and I don't exchange blows either. I'm fairly certain at this point that he is of the same mind on defending you as Karkat is on defending me."

Sherlock shouldn't really be the threat here, if he was going to lay down his arms. But that didn't mean John would be so accommodating.

"I can't speak for John," Sherlock said, his words quiet but firm.

"I've no interest in continuing any of this, but the most I can promise on his behalf is that I will speak to him. What he decides to do with the information provided is entirely at his discretion. As, I imagine, is Karkat's."

"I will have to speak to him, then, as well. And hopefully without you there." He shouldn't have to wonder about why Cuthbert doesn't want him there when he talks to John.

Cuthbert shifts again in his blanket cocoon and tries to make it clear that Sherlock can leave any time.

"Don't let me keep you here."

Sherlock let out a low sound - almost a snort - his skeptism at Cuthbert and John having a conversation of meaning without him very apparent. But he had no desire to stay much longer as it was so he raised his palms with a shrug.

"Then I won't," He said, simply, and didn't offer another word as he let himself out and shut the door with a bang.

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