[locked to prep teams from 12, 7 and 3]
we sure got the pick of the fuckin litter this year
[UNRECORDED]
There isn't a whole lot Walter knows about birthdays. He's got the basics down: some kind of gift, maybe, a cake or something like that if you can afford any of these things. But birthdays have always been a pretty foreign concept he's mostly just... gone along with, when it comes to friendly group of fellow Victors. They're just not things he thinks much about, really. Finding out he'd missed Caro's... well, that's a problem only because it's Caro's. But clearly they erred somewhere with the mention Caro's birthday.
He takes a moment to actually vaguely clean himself up before dragging himself out of his compartment on the train. He's going to be very, very glad when this goddamn tour is over, not just because of how awkward it is to visit Caro. It's so much easier when he doesn't have to dodge prep team minions constantly. He's lucky enough that he escapes their annoying attentions... this time.
He only hesitates at her door briefly. She's upset but upset is hardly enough to deter Walter; it's more the birthday thing. He doesn't know what to say to that. He'll improvise, though, as usual. After a moment of getting his shit together he raps his knuckles against the door. "Hey, sweetheart? Mind if I come in?"
He takes a moment to actually vaguely clean himself up before dragging himself out of his compartment on the train. He's going to be very, very glad when this goddamn tour is over, not just because of how awkward it is to visit Caro. It's so much easier when he doesn't have to dodge prep team minions constantly. He's lucky enough that he escapes their annoying attentions... this time.
He only hesitates at her door briefly. She's upset but upset is hardly enough to deter Walter; it's more the birthday thing. He doesn't know what to say to that. He'll improvise, though, as usual. After a moment of getting his shit together he raps his knuckles against the door. "Hey, sweetheart? Mind if I come in?"
(no subject)
District 7 is even colder than Walter remembers it being, and that's saying something. He's thankful that Caro's speech is held inside - outside's more or less a blizzard, at the moment - and even if 7 is about as bad off as 12 is, they still manage a reception that can be called reasonably warm, given the circumstances. It's a better atmosphere than the one he was greeted with on his Victory Tour, at least. Still he mostly suffers through the party despite it, and despite the refreshments. He sees very little of 7's resident Victors, especially Murphy, but that's mostly to be expected. They're not sociable people. Not in this setting, at least.
He gives Weyoun credit that the Escort tries to get them free of the festivities and back to the train as soon as they can - but he goes and throws something of a wrench in those plans. They're not going back to the train. Not tonight, no. He's going to go visit with Murphy while he has the goddamn opportunity to. The rest of the team can skip it if they want, he doesn't care.
Soo now he's trudging up the icy, snowy path road to the Victor's Village. It's not even that long of a walk but it's uphill and... well, 12 gets cold and icy, but not like this. He's wearing the best fucking coat he could find and about four layers of clothes and he's still fucking freezing. And Murphy's house would be the last fucking one in the row. <I>Goddamn you antisocial bastard,</I> as if Walter isn't exactly the same way.
He's grateful when he does finally reach the goddamn steps of the house. It's basically the same as all the others, not even really all that different from the ones in 12's Victor's Village. The brief cacophony of barking that greets him when he knocks is something else entirely. How many more dogs has he even gotten since last time?
He gives Weyoun credit that the Escort tries to get them free of the festivities and back to the train as soon as they can - but he goes and throws something of a wrench in those plans. They're not going back to the train. Not tonight, no. He's going to go visit with Murphy while he has the goddamn opportunity to. The rest of the team can skip it if they want, he doesn't care.
Soo now he's trudging up the icy, snowy path road to the Victor's Village. It's not even that long of a walk but it's uphill and... well, 12 gets cold and icy, but not like this. He's wearing the best fucking coat he could find and about four layers of clothes and he's still fucking freezing. And Murphy's house would be the last fucking one in the row. <I>Goddamn you antisocial bastard,</I> as if Walter isn't exactly the same way.
He's grateful when he does finally reach the goddamn steps of the house. It's basically the same as all the others, not even really all that different from the ones in 12's Victor's Village. The brief cacophony of barking that greets him when he knocks is something else entirely. How many more dogs has he even gotten since last time?
Entry tags:
[BACKSTORY: 2ND QUARTER QUELL, PART 2]
Walter wakes up in the early pre-dawn hours to the sound of the cannon firing. It startles him out of rest so quickly that it takes a moment for him to realize he’s even awake at all. And not only is he awake, he’s soaked through and freezing – it only takes a second to realize it’s not sweat, but rain. It must have rained in the night. He was tired enough he barely noticed.
He blinks away the weird dream fog and disentangles himself from the bedroll and rope keeping him secured up in the trees. He'd dreamt of the Wish House. Of the other children, of Dahlia and Jimmy. At some point that had become a nightmare about the damp, dank cell he found himself in sometimes, and in hindsight that's probably when the rain had started. It doesn't matter. It's just dreams.
( ----- )
He blinks away the weird dream fog and disentangles himself from the bedroll and rope keeping him secured up in the trees. He'd dreamt of the Wish House. Of the other children, of Dahlia and Jimmy. At some point that had become a nightmare about the damp, dank cell he found himself in sometimes, and in hindsight that's probably when the rain had started. It doesn't matter. It's just dreams.
( ----- )
Entry tags:
[BACKSTORY: 2ND QUARTER QUELL, PART 1]
The glass tube before the arena is cold and claustrophobic, much smaller feeling than the clear walls should allow. Walter palms at the sides of it as he’s lifted up rapidly despite himself. It feels as if the walls are caving in on him and then suddenly, he’s blinded by bright white light. His eyes sting and he has to blink rapidly until they adjust to the sudden change.
( ----- )
( ----- )
[UNRECORDED]
Walter's lucky enough to actually know about the team stylist's imminent arrival slightly before he actually does. Approximately a few hours ahead of time, which is more than enough time for him to wander down to the train station and wait.
He finds himself a seat on a bench in the shade, and waits. It's going to be a little bit but he doesn't mind all that much. It helps him get his thoughts together on the impeding... whatever it is. Conversation with Garak about Caro, always a fun thing. It's better than talking to Weyoun about Caro, at least.
He's fairly certain Garak is unaware of Caro's scars, and Walter really would like to make sure the stylist leaves those be, not to mention making sure his overall plan for Caro isn't objectionable. He really does like Garak inasmuch as he ever likes Capitol people. He did alright by Caro during her Games, and he even did fine by Walter. But he's also Capitol people, and Walter can't trust Capitol people as far as he can throw then.
He finds himself a seat on a bench in the shade, and waits. It's going to be a little bit but he doesn't mind all that much. It helps him get his thoughts together on the impeding... whatever it is. Conversation with Garak about Caro, always a fun thing. It's better than talking to Weyoun about Caro, at least.
He's fairly certain Garak is unaware of Caro's scars, and Walter really would like to make sure the stylist leaves those be, not to mention making sure his overall plan for Caro isn't objectionable. He really does like Garak inasmuch as he ever likes Capitol people. He did alright by Caro during her Games, and he even did fine by Walter. But he's also Capitol people, and Walter can't trust Capitol people as far as he can throw then.
[UNRECORDED]
Walter really hopes one day he'll be able to come over to Caro's house for reasons that aren't entirely awkward - the first time was because his goddamn cat went missing, and now... because she happened upon him when he was far more intoxicated than he'd ever like her to see. It ended well, save for the apparently inevitable Bourbon-related interruption, but he'd really rather it not have happened at all.
So today he awkwardly walks across to her house a few hours before her normal visiting time. To... he's not sure what, yet. Apologize for being a big fucking mess and a miserable sloppy drunk, maybe, but that's pretty much his entire existence summed up neatly, isn't it? He sighs quietly, knocks on the door, and waits.
So today he awkwardly walks across to her house a few hours before her normal visiting time. To... he's not sure what, yet. Apologize for being a big fucking mess and a miserable sloppy drunk, maybe, but that's pretty much his entire existence summed up neatly, isn't it? He sighs quietly, knocks on the door, and waits.
[UNRECORDED]
Walter's actually up and about slightly early for him. Of course, 'slightly early' means early afternoon. Of course this means he has to deal with calming Bourbon the fuck down and feeding her so he can actually get his shit together and leave the house and do what it is he's actually specifically woken up early to do.
Once Bourbon's busy messily inhaling her food, Walter gets about cleaning the now-empty stew jars. He spends considerably less time cleaning himself up, but that's to be expected of him. He always looks vaguely like he slept on the floor no matter what.
It's neither luck nor coincidence that Caro and Weyoun have already left to do... whatever it is they do by the time Walter steps foot out of his house. He doesn't really want to deal with them today, especially not with Weyoun, so takes care to avoid them. Honestly, any and all human interaction sounds like a terrible idea today, but especially with those two.
It's not much of a walk over to Caro's house but he isn't really in any kind of rush. It's silent and still in the Victor's Village, like it always is; it feels like something of a ghost town to Walter most days. He doesn't so much live in the Victor's Village as quietly haunt it.
He peers carefully in Caro's window for a moment before deciding that, yes, it is vacant. The jars get set down carefully by her door, where they'll be neither knocked over and broken or go unnoticed. That's good enough, right? Right.
Once Bourbon's busy messily inhaling her food, Walter gets about cleaning the now-empty stew jars. He spends considerably less time cleaning himself up, but that's to be expected of him. He always looks vaguely like he slept on the floor no matter what.
It's neither luck nor coincidence that Caro and Weyoun have already left to do... whatever it is they do by the time Walter steps foot out of his house. He doesn't really want to deal with them today, especially not with Weyoun, so takes care to avoid them. Honestly, any and all human interaction sounds like a terrible idea today, but especially with those two.
It's not much of a walk over to Caro's house but he isn't really in any kind of rush. It's silent and still in the Victor's Village, like it always is; it feels like something of a ghost town to Walter most days. He doesn't so much live in the Victor's Village as quietly haunt it.
He peers carefully in Caro's window for a moment before deciding that, yes, it is vacant. The jars get set down carefully by her door, where they'll be neither knocked over and broken or go unnoticed. That's good enough, right? Right.
[UNRECORDED]
Walter goes right back to drinking as soon as Caro leaves. Well, feeding his cat then drinking, so when he does inevitably pass out (finally, many hours into the night later) his fucking cat is less likely to wake him up.
She does anyway.
The first thing he sees is a small furry face and unnaturally big green eyes, approximately an inch from his nose. Which she'd been biting.
"Goddamnit, cat, no. Go the fuck away," He grumbles at her until he realizes that the daylight shining in through the cracks of the curtains looks a lot further along than morning - beyond late afternoon, even. Well, fuck. Bourbon gets gently shoved off her place on his chest so he can roll over and tryand cover his face with his arms because despite whatever the fucking sun says, it feels like too early and not enough liquor yet. His cat keeps pawing at him. His head's pounding. The cold wood floor isn't helping his head much, either, but he doesn't feel like moving yet. Two seconds later, the small cat latched to the back of it doesn't help, either. Those claws are fucking sharp.
He curses and yells and she scampers away, but he's up, finally. From there it's just... finding if he has any coffee left to make and maybe actually changing to a different set of clothes before Caro shows up. That might be a good idea.
He ends up sitting on the kitchen floor, drinking black coffee and feeding Bourbon sardines while he waits for the inevitable neighborly visit. She settles right into his lap, apparently having forgiven his earlier rudeness since he found more treats for her.
She does anyway.
The first thing he sees is a small furry face and unnaturally big green eyes, approximately an inch from his nose. Which she'd been biting.
"Goddamnit, cat, no. Go the fuck away," He grumbles at her until he realizes that the daylight shining in through the cracks of the curtains looks a lot further along than morning - beyond late afternoon, even. Well, fuck. Bourbon gets gently shoved off her place on his chest so he can roll over and tryand cover his face with his arms because despite whatever the fucking sun says, it feels like too early and not enough liquor yet. His cat keeps pawing at him. His head's pounding. The cold wood floor isn't helping his head much, either, but he doesn't feel like moving yet. Two seconds later, the small cat latched to the back of it doesn't help, either. Those claws are fucking sharp.
He curses and yells and she scampers away, but he's up, finally. From there it's just... finding if he has any coffee left to make and maybe actually changing to a different set of clothes before Caro shows up. That might be a good idea.
He ends up sitting on the kitchen floor, drinking black coffee and feeding Bourbon sardines while he waits for the inevitable neighborly visit. She settles right into his lap, apparently having forgiven his earlier rudeness since he found more treats for her.
[UNRECORDED]
Walter manages to catch the tail end of Caro’s… visit with her parents. It’s brief but more than enough for him to cement things he’d been considering for a while anyway. He watches them leave from the edge of his yard – not that it’s particularly hard to, they have to walk past him as they go. The glare at him a little but don’t say anything, and he vanishes back into his house a moment later.
It’s not long before he manages to put his plan into action. It’s not all that differently from his normal-ish routine that starts with him grumpily waking up to a small kitten curled up practically on his face, then actually putting himself together and going to the Hob. It is a bit early for his usual trips to get food or liquor, but in truth he’s after neither. He’s looking for someone he’s fairly certain will be there. He settles in at his usual seat at Sae’s and waits patiently. Thankfully the Hob looks to be especially slow today.
It doesn’t take long for the man himself to show up, Caro’s father, followed shortly by her mother. Doing his daily… whatever the fuck it is they do in the Hob every day. Walter doesn’t much care, honestly. He intercepts the couple before they have a chance to go about their regular business.
They react to him in the exact way he’d expected: with a grudging sort of respect that’s somehow not all that respectful at all. He’s the town drunk, he’s an embarrassment and he’s just approached them in public… but he’s also the only survivor of all the Order members with any real significance in the church, and no matter how distant these two are from their ties, they haven’t forgotten that.
“Mr. Sullivan,” Her father nods, managing at least a thin veneer of politeness.
Walter takes a moment to just smile placidly at the two of them before he breaks the silence. He knows right now this event is of no real notice beyond oh, the town’s resident stupid, harmless drunk is maybe bothering someone, but that’s going to change very rapidly. “I saw you at Caro’s. You stay the fuck away from her from here on out.”
“Who do you think you are,” Her father starts. The man tries to bring himself up to a more intimidating height – it’s the sort of thing someone who’s used to using his size as an implicit threat. But Walter’s taller, and he’s not having any of it.
Wordlessly and still smiling in that dead-eyed, placid way, he grasps Caro’s father by his throat with one hand and shoves her mother away with the other. The struggling the man does isn’t of much help; Walter stops that with a solid punch to the gut, and that’s when he goes to work. He knows just where to hit that hurts the most without being lethal and that’s just what he does, and very rapidly. He knows he hears bones give out as he works – fingers snap, ribs crack, the man’s wrist probably splinters when he twists it just right. The biggest risk he takes is slamming this asshole’s head into the table, because that might actually kill him. Walter finds he doesn’t have much capacity to care about that. When he’s mostly done, he lifts him up by his neck and splays him across the nearest empty table. Coincidentally, it’s also the one where his wife sits, pale-faced with shock and likely horror.
If Walter’s harmless reputation isn’t dead yet, it will be soon. He pins the man to the table with the silverware there – a sharp knife through each shoulder of his jacket. Walter produces a third knife from somewhere on his person, one clearly meant for things more violent than taking apart whatever Sae had been serving. A quick slash with his knife and he’s left a nice gash over the man’s chest, approximately over his heart. He glances to her mother and gestures to her with the knife.
“You didn’t deserve her, and you don’t deserve to keep breathing after the things you did to her.” He’s aware that the few other people here are reacting… well, with as much fear as any sane person would in the situation. “I thought a warning would have been good enough but, no, you have to have it the hard way.”
He turns his attention back to her father, still stuck to the table. He pries the wounded man’s jaw open and holds it that way with his knife. He can see fear in those beady little eyes –one wrong move, after all, one little slip…
“If I ever hear that you’ve spoken to her again,” Walter’s voice is soft and quiet, but lacking anything resembling gentleness. “I’ll take your tongue. If you so much as look at her, I’ll take your eyes, too. And if you ever attempt to contact her again by any means, if you ever set foot in the Victor’s Village, I will take your heart, and I’ll make you beg for death before I do. Are we clear?”
Walter removes the knife after her father very gingerly nods. He pats him gently on the cheek, pries the two other knives from the table before pocketing his own, and he leaves them there, in the Hob. He apologizes to Sae on his way back out –and he does feel a little bad, but some things just have to be done.
It’s not long before he manages to put his plan into action. It’s not all that differently from his normal-ish routine that starts with him grumpily waking up to a small kitten curled up practically on his face, then actually putting himself together and going to the Hob. It is a bit early for his usual trips to get food or liquor, but in truth he’s after neither. He’s looking for someone he’s fairly certain will be there. He settles in at his usual seat at Sae’s and waits patiently. Thankfully the Hob looks to be especially slow today.
It doesn’t take long for the man himself to show up, Caro’s father, followed shortly by her mother. Doing his daily… whatever the fuck it is they do in the Hob every day. Walter doesn’t much care, honestly. He intercepts the couple before they have a chance to go about their regular business.
They react to him in the exact way he’d expected: with a grudging sort of respect that’s somehow not all that respectful at all. He’s the town drunk, he’s an embarrassment and he’s just approached them in public… but he’s also the only survivor of all the Order members with any real significance in the church, and no matter how distant these two are from their ties, they haven’t forgotten that.
“Mr. Sullivan,” Her father nods, managing at least a thin veneer of politeness.
Walter takes a moment to just smile placidly at the two of them before he breaks the silence. He knows right now this event is of no real notice beyond oh, the town’s resident stupid, harmless drunk is maybe bothering someone, but that’s going to change very rapidly. “I saw you at Caro’s. You stay the fuck away from her from here on out.”
“Who do you think you are,” Her father starts. The man tries to bring himself up to a more intimidating height – it’s the sort of thing someone who’s used to using his size as an implicit threat. But Walter’s taller, and he’s not having any of it.
Wordlessly and still smiling in that dead-eyed, placid way, he grasps Caro’s father by his throat with one hand and shoves her mother away with the other. The struggling the man does isn’t of much help; Walter stops that with a solid punch to the gut, and that’s when he goes to work. He knows just where to hit that hurts the most without being lethal and that’s just what he does, and very rapidly. He knows he hears bones give out as he works – fingers snap, ribs crack, the man’s wrist probably splinters when he twists it just right. The biggest risk he takes is slamming this asshole’s head into the table, because that might actually kill him. Walter finds he doesn’t have much capacity to care about that. When he’s mostly done, he lifts him up by his neck and splays him across the nearest empty table. Coincidentally, it’s also the one where his wife sits, pale-faced with shock and likely horror.
If Walter’s harmless reputation isn’t dead yet, it will be soon. He pins the man to the table with the silverware there – a sharp knife through each shoulder of his jacket. Walter produces a third knife from somewhere on his person, one clearly meant for things more violent than taking apart whatever Sae had been serving. A quick slash with his knife and he’s left a nice gash over the man’s chest, approximately over his heart. He glances to her mother and gestures to her with the knife.
“You didn’t deserve her, and you don’t deserve to keep breathing after the things you did to her.” He’s aware that the few other people here are reacting… well, with as much fear as any sane person would in the situation. “I thought a warning would have been good enough but, no, you have to have it the hard way.”
He turns his attention back to her father, still stuck to the table. He pries the wounded man’s jaw open and holds it that way with his knife. He can see fear in those beady little eyes –one wrong move, after all, one little slip…
“If I ever hear that you’ve spoken to her again,” Walter’s voice is soft and quiet, but lacking anything resembling gentleness. “I’ll take your tongue. If you so much as look at her, I’ll take your eyes, too. And if you ever attempt to contact her again by any means, if you ever set foot in the Victor’s Village, I will take your heart, and I’ll make you beg for death before I do. Are we clear?”
Walter removes the knife after her father very gingerly nods. He pats him gently on the cheek, pries the two other knives from the table before pocketing his own, and he leaves them there, in the Hob. He apologizes to Sae on his way back out –and he does feel a little bad, but some things just have to be done.
[UNRECORDED]
For the first week, Walter’s convinced it’s a possum; maybe a raccoon, a very small raccoon.
He notices something’s wrong as soon as he gets settled back into his house, and how could he not. His drawers of clothes are ajar in a way that he definitely did not do. At first he thought the very worst until he realized that whatever had rifled through his clothes and belongings also got into his food. So much less sinister when it’s a small-ish furry thing he can potentially kill or otherwise evict. But it continuously evades his every effort at finding it, let alone catching it. It probably doesn’t help that he’s not terribly dedicated to this endeavor, at least not as much as he is to getting himself back off the wagon in a very serious manner.
It’s after his most recent visit to the Hob that he decides maybe he’ll really try, after a brief conversation with Greasy Sae. Her eyes light up when she hears his complaints. Possom’s good cookin, after all, and if he could get it and bring it to her, she’d make sure to give him decent compensation for it. He reluctantly agrees and stalks back to his house at the first given opportunity. Maybe not exactly a man on a mission, but he at least knows where that possum (or possums) will end up: in Sae’s stewpot. Eventually. Maybe. Probably.
He sets up some rather well-done traps, and he waits. And he waits some more, to no avail. The possums outsmart him at every turn. Maybe fixing his house would have prevented them moving in in the first place, but that would require effort on his part or even letting people in his house to repair it. He’d rather not on both accounts, honestly. So he patches things up to the best of his abilities despite the fact the possum or raccoon is most definitely already in his house. They just can’t bring in friends.
And the little fucker still evades him yet.
It’s not until he’s given up on the whole matter that he actually finds the pest.
It’s late one night, while he’s wandering around restlessly – at least he’s fairly sure it’s late at night, since he never pays that much attention when left to his own devices. It’s dark out and he slept through the sunset, and it’s not looking close to sunrise so… good enough estimate. He stops in his kitchen to look for something to maybe eat when he hears it: a bag of something ripping open. It’s easy to pick out the cupboard in question even without the noise, since it’s half open with some of its contents spilling out. He creeps up on it very carefully and peers inside, trying to get a look at least at this fucking freeloader stealing his shit.
It’s tiny, furry, eating his food, and when it realizes it’s being watched, it just turns around and mews at him.
Oh, goddamnit.
He expects it to run but instead the little cat just stumbles out of the cupboard and after him. It’s even littler than he thought, fluffy in a very scruff sort of way and some kind of mottled black and brown. It sits at his feet and mews again.
“No. No, you can fuck right off with that right now.” He grumbles, nudging it away from him with his foot. It just takes this as an excuse to bat at his foot and mew up at him more insistently.
“Yeah, no. I don’t do pets. You’re gonna have to go.” And with that he picks the tiny bastard up by the scruff of its neck – not that he has to, it’s smaller than his fist – and marches it outside his house and leaves it there, in the road past the boundary of his yard.
Not an hour later and he hears a pitiful mewling from the front door. He ignores it as best he can, but it is relentless. It’s rather unsettling to listen to while he tries to drink and eventually, he relents and goes to the front door. There is a very small paw waving through the mail slot. He bends down and eases the little bastard’s foot back out. “You fucking idiot, you’ll get stuck,” He grumbles before finally opening the door. The kitten stares up at him for the longest moment, but it stays there on the porch. He decides then its eyes are way too big for its head.
“Fine, fine! Just move the fuck on in like I invited you, you little shithead. Go on. Get back inside.” Yes, he’s angrily ordering the cat back inside. When it continues to just stare at him, he sighs and goes to pick it up. …Only for it to run this time.
And that’s why he spends the next hour sitting on his porch at 2 am, feeding a stray kitten anchovies. He gets it to like him enough to bring it back inside and he convinces himself he’ll find it a home the next day. There’s a lot of ‘I’m getting rid of you tomorrow,’ with him and this cat, mostly when he’s sitting at his table trying to read and the little bastard’s trying to sleep on his arm or eat from his plate, not that he ever puts much effort in dissuading it. He doesn’t eat much anyway and the food won’t go to waste, right?
He’ll get rid of it next week, he’s sure.
He notices something’s wrong as soon as he gets settled back into his house, and how could he not. His drawers of clothes are ajar in a way that he definitely did not do. At first he thought the very worst until he realized that whatever had rifled through his clothes and belongings also got into his food. So much less sinister when it’s a small-ish furry thing he can potentially kill or otherwise evict. But it continuously evades his every effort at finding it, let alone catching it. It probably doesn’t help that he’s not terribly dedicated to this endeavor, at least not as much as he is to getting himself back off the wagon in a very serious manner.
It’s after his most recent visit to the Hob that he decides maybe he’ll really try, after a brief conversation with Greasy Sae. Her eyes light up when she hears his complaints. Possom’s good cookin, after all, and if he could get it and bring it to her, she’d make sure to give him decent compensation for it. He reluctantly agrees and stalks back to his house at the first given opportunity. Maybe not exactly a man on a mission, but he at least knows where that possum (or possums) will end up: in Sae’s stewpot. Eventually. Maybe. Probably.
He sets up some rather well-done traps, and he waits. And he waits some more, to no avail. The possums outsmart him at every turn. Maybe fixing his house would have prevented them moving in in the first place, but that would require effort on his part or even letting people in his house to repair it. He’d rather not on both accounts, honestly. So he patches things up to the best of his abilities despite the fact the possum or raccoon is most definitely already in his house. They just can’t bring in friends.
And the little fucker still evades him yet.
It’s not until he’s given up on the whole matter that he actually finds the pest.
It’s late one night, while he’s wandering around restlessly – at least he’s fairly sure it’s late at night, since he never pays that much attention when left to his own devices. It’s dark out and he slept through the sunset, and it’s not looking close to sunrise so… good enough estimate. He stops in his kitchen to look for something to maybe eat when he hears it: a bag of something ripping open. It’s easy to pick out the cupboard in question even without the noise, since it’s half open with some of its contents spilling out. He creeps up on it very carefully and peers inside, trying to get a look at least at this fucking freeloader stealing his shit.
It’s tiny, furry, eating his food, and when it realizes it’s being watched, it just turns around and mews at him.
Oh, goddamnit.
He expects it to run but instead the little cat just stumbles out of the cupboard and after him. It’s even littler than he thought, fluffy in a very scruff sort of way and some kind of mottled black and brown. It sits at his feet and mews again.
“No. No, you can fuck right off with that right now.” He grumbles, nudging it away from him with his foot. It just takes this as an excuse to bat at his foot and mew up at him more insistently.
“Yeah, no. I don’t do pets. You’re gonna have to go.” And with that he picks the tiny bastard up by the scruff of its neck – not that he has to, it’s smaller than his fist – and marches it outside his house and leaves it there, in the road past the boundary of his yard.
Not an hour later and he hears a pitiful mewling from the front door. He ignores it as best he can, but it is relentless. It’s rather unsettling to listen to while he tries to drink and eventually, he relents and goes to the front door. There is a very small paw waving through the mail slot. He bends down and eases the little bastard’s foot back out. “You fucking idiot, you’ll get stuck,” He grumbles before finally opening the door. The kitten stares up at him for the longest moment, but it stays there on the porch. He decides then its eyes are way too big for its head.
“Fine, fine! Just move the fuck on in like I invited you, you little shithead. Go on. Get back inside.” Yes, he’s angrily ordering the cat back inside. When it continues to just stare at him, he sighs and goes to pick it up. …Only for it to run this time.
And that’s why he spends the next hour sitting on his porch at 2 am, feeding a stray kitten anchovies. He gets it to like him enough to bring it back inside and he convinces himself he’ll find it a home the next day. There’s a lot of ‘I’m getting rid of you tomorrow,’ with him and this cat, mostly when he’s sitting at his table trying to read and the little bastard’s trying to sleep on his arm or eat from his plate, not that he ever puts much effort in dissuading it. He doesn’t eat much anyway and the food won’t go to waste, right?
He’ll get rid of it next week, he’s sure.
[UNRECORDED]
Walter is infinitely grateful when the goddamn Victory banquet is finally over. It was a seemingly endless haze of hand-shakes and congratulations, Caro meeting people and having her picture taken, and him mostly just quietly plotting the death of everyone around him. Particularly anyone who insisted on stopping them to chat as the party was winding down. They stood between him and sleep. They needed to die. It's only fair.
Fortunately for all involved Walter did not go on a killing spree, but when he shoves his way onto the train back home he's not in a noticeably better mood, either. He finds the bar car and gets himself a drink and just... flops back into a chair, mostly scowling at the drink instead of drinking it. It might be a minute before Caro and Weyoun join him.
He's glad to leave the Capitol behind - oh is he ever - but he's also never all that happy about 12. It's... 12. It's home and he, for the most part, hates it, too. But he gets left alone in his house in Victor's Village and no one much pays attention to him, and he likes that arrangement just fine.
Of course... he's going to have a neighbor now. He'd say that's interesting but he already knows it's doubtful that'll change much. And this particular trip home comes with so much more in the way of potential problems than any others. Shit he can neither speak to anyone about or even do anything about.
Fortunately for all involved Walter did not go on a killing spree, but when he shoves his way onto the train back home he's not in a noticeably better mood, either. He finds the bar car and gets himself a drink and just... flops back into a chair, mostly scowling at the drink instead of drinking it. It might be a minute before Caro and Weyoun join him.
He's glad to leave the Capitol behind - oh is he ever - but he's also never all that happy about 12. It's... 12. It's home and he, for the most part, hates it, too. But he gets left alone in his house in Victor's Village and no one much pays attention to him, and he likes that arrangement just fine.
Of course... he's going to have a neighbor now. He'd say that's interesting but he already knows it's doubtful that'll change much. And this particular trip home comes with so much more in the way of potential problems than any others. Shit he can neither speak to anyone about or even do anything about.
[UNRECORDED]
The gardens this Gamemaker agreed to meet them in are the picture of Capitol architecture. Stylishly laid out, meticulously groomed to be as serene and peaceful as any garden could hope to be... and Walter Sullivan's pacing around them a little bit like a caged animal.
It's not that he doubts that Garak and Weyoun came through on this. For all his issues with Weyoun, he knows the man is as reliable as he is insufferable, and Garak hasn't given him much reason to doubt him yet. It's just he knows that if he doesn't do something very soon it won't matter how well Caro does, how skilled she is in the arena, how many sponsors she gets. That she's done so well is likely to make this problem all the more inevitable.
"They said they'll be here?" Of course, them actually showing is just step one. Step two is convincing them he needs to speak with Seneca privately.
It's not that he doubts that Garak and Weyoun came through on this. For all his issues with Weyoun, he knows the man is as reliable as he is insufferable, and Garak hasn't given him much reason to doubt him yet. It's just he knows that if he doesn't do something very soon it won't matter how well Caro does, how skilled she is in the arena, how many sponsors she gets. That she's done so well is likely to make this problem all the more inevitable.
"They said they'll be here?" Of course, them actually showing is just step one. Step two is convincing them he needs to speak with Seneca privately.
[UNRECORDED]
Walter didn't sleep at all last night. He spent as much of it as he could trying to figure out what, if any, damage Zopf's interview had caused and... maybe more importantly, what damage Caro's had done. Those questions sat weird with him long after he'd given the all clear that she'd salvaged the moment. Sure the sponsors and the audience probably didn't much of those particular questions, but they had been very specific. Someone had been trying to make a point with them and Walter can't stop worrying over it.
So he paces, strategizes and drinks the night away. By the time the sun rises he's sobered (and showered) up, and actually dressed despite it being his usual hours for grumping about in his bathrobe. He takes to the dining room before the staff even begins to set out breakfast, and he waits. And he waits. Weyoun should be out soon.
So he waits some more.
Where the fuck is Weyoun.
So he paces, strategizes and drinks the night away. By the time the sun rises he's sobered (and showered) up, and actually dressed despite it being his usual hours for grumping about in his bathrobe. He takes to the dining room before the staff even begins to set out breakfast, and he waits. And he waits. Weyoun should be out soon.
So he waits some more.
Where the fuck is Weyoun.