TEXT

[itase]

Okay. Survey time. Am I seriously the only person here who's not from a world filled with people trying to murder me?

I mean. I had the one. But that was more incidental. I am the definition of collateral damage on that one. But some of you all take it to the next level. Or all the way up to 11, in some cases.

Comments

[itase]

Right. Friends. Family. That...would make totally human sense.

[hungover]

[He actually has to take another shot before he speaks again.]

Not all of us, though.

[As long as Katniss -- and Peeta -- are both here, he's got no reason to want to go back.]

[itase]

[And- amazingly- Darcy actually gives a little snort into her next shot. Before taking it, of course.]

Okay. I give. It is my ultimate destiny to just foot in mouth in front of you. I accept my fate.

[hungover]

There are worse things you could do in front of me, I assure you.

[It's funny what Capitol ladies are confident they can get away with when you appear to be more or less uselessly flopped against a wall.]

[itase]

Dancing? Let's go with dancing. You've seen some really, really terrible dancers.

[hungover]

Dancing is one of those things, yes.

[He just ... won't go into detail on what kind of dancing.

He squints at the bottle of liquor they've been nursing. Well, that's getting quite ... empty, isn't it.]

[itase]

You mean the thing. The only thing. Because I have some sanity left, and I am so getting the feeling that's a valuable commodity in these parts.

[Shhh. The bottle is fine. Don't judge, bondly.]

[hungover]

...right, yes. The only thing left that can offend my delicate sensibilities is a dancer.

[And he smirks, then, topping off both their drinks.

He wonders then if she's going to end up sleeping it off here or try and stumble back to her home. Probably more familiar there, really.]

[itase]

I knew it. Salsa is a sacred mistress.

[Spoiler: here. Or the hallway. Because directions are not her forte even when sober.]

From now on, I'm calling all trauma codeword 'dancing.'

[hungover]

That's going to bring a whole new meaning to inviting someone to dance, you realize.

[Seriously, Darcy, what have you done.]

[itase]

Worth it. And not just because, here? Any dance related event will probably end in psychological scarring anyway.

[Gently. Slouching into chair. So cozy.]

[hungover]

[That's some quality foreshadowing on your part, Darcy, because any sort of Initiative-run dance is going to be the worst thing.]

Doesn't sound so different from how most people remember their first dances, I imagine.

[itase]

Excuse you. Have you seen me? I made it to second base with the...well. Third hottest boy in my class. Ask anyone.

[And oh so inconspicuously putting head down on table along with the slouching. Not because she's drunk. Just because that helps to keep the room from rudely spinning around her, okay.]

[hungover]

[Haymitch just chuckles. He's seen her, all right, but that sort of thing isn't on his mind much any more.]

Good for you, then. I had a looker of a lass back in the day.

[You know, before she was brutally murdered.

[itase]

You're kidding me.

[And turning the head so she can actually look at him. Which...okay. Maybe with a make over and less booze-ahol...eh. Old.]

[hungover]

When I was younger than you, even.

[Ah, to be seventeen again and not have the deaths of nearly a hundred children on your hands...]

[itase]

So. Toddler. Ish?

[Yes. Alcohol is officially not helping with the 'be more sensitive' oath she mentally swore earlier in the evening.]

[hungover]

[He snorts.]

Seventeen. Typical seam girl -- dark hair, eyes like coal dust.

[He's wistful, for a moment, before the dark look crosses his face again.]

'course, the last time I saw her she was seeing a little more red.

[itase]

[don't say it, don't say it don'tsayitdon'tsayit]

What happened?

[damn]

[hungover]

Oh, you know. Politics.

[That's -- pretty vague, really.]

[itase]

[And she will take that. So hard.]

Say no more. Please. I don't want to know how badly dystopian mental imagery mixes with vodka dream.

[hungover]

[She's learning quickly, that's -- good. Less things for Haymitch to have to gruffly brush off.]

I think I can manage that.

[itase]

Mm. Good. I'm... having slightly more difficulty. With the talking thing- do you have blankets?

[it is a good, fine table. And she needs to finish that bottle with him.]

[hungover]

[Blankets. Why is she -- oh. Right. Not everyone has his tolerance.

He swaggers up and out of the living room and to his bedroom, and comes back with a blanket. It doesn't even reek like anything yet!]

Here.

[And he thrusts it sort of half-awkwardly toward her.]