Who | Cyrus Reagan and Jason Compson.
What | Jason's coming to Cyrus for help. Cyrus is, as usual, doomed to be very disappointed.
Where | The Reagan household in the Capitol.
When | In something resembling a lull in the action in January.
Warnings | Will update as necessary!

He lives on synthetic caffeine and dull anxiety these days. His title, Minister of District Affairs, sounds like a morbid joke spoken aloud. He's considering just having a bed moved into his office, because the nights he spends at home are growing further and further apart. His apartment deep in the city is all but abandoned, still dusted dutifully by the three Avoxes he's paying someone else to keep from starving; his days are divided between the office and the manor. His two duties.

Stephen is safe, at least. Safely out of the way, safely out of any risk of involvement. Those wealthy enough to do it used to send their families deep into the District wilderness when unfavorable winds began to blow, but now-- they have more guards, deeper saferooms, all within the borders of the Capitol.

No enemy will make it here, he believes. The Reagans pull together when crisis looms. Tightening his grip on Stephen and moving back in here were natural actions, nothing anyone asked him to do. His grandmother didn't need to thank him for coming, because she knew he'd be here.

There are small ways Cyrus knows to regain some feeling of control. There's nothing he can do about anything that comes down from above or from outside, and so he has regimented everything below and around him-- turned his piece of the manor into a sanctuary, where the air does not stir except with his permission. The screens come on only when he wants them on, and the broadcasts stop when the buzzing of voices in his ears becomes unbearable. The hours in which he will tolerate interruption have grown smaller and smaller. He has made a habit of watching doorways, turning his communicator restlessly in his hand, the skin under his eyes grown loose and thin in a way even makeup can't conceal, daring anyone to disturb him and feeling dull, pointless satisfaction when they don't.

But when they do--

The communicator makes the cheerful chime of the doorbell, and Cyrus looks down at it with his mouth already hard at the edges. The lines in his face deepen when he sees the name the Avox at the door has sent through.

What the hell does Compson--?

He should have called. He would have called, ordinarily. He'd wonder if Jason was drunk, but-- no, not him. You can count on him for that, if nothing else. Did Livia--? Portia--? No, why would they; their primary communication with the Compsons in the last ten years has been through condolence cards. They wouldn't...

Cyrus stops the chime with a jab of his thumb. Holds the button. Says, calm, "...Admit Mr. Compson. See him to the parlor."

He stands, adjusts his suit jacket (because he could be called away any second, and time spent changing is time wasted), and goes; he knows the number of seconds from the gate to the front door. He knows he'll be there, waiting, when Jason comes in.