Call Me, Doc, I Must Be Sick [The Games AU]

[dead_black_eyes]

Who: Linden Lockhearst and Dr. Caesar Salazar
When: After Linden's latest stint in rehab, between Arenas
Where: District 6's suite in the Tribute Tower
What: Some self-destructive Victors go through doctors faster than others.



It had felt like a sudden pain, a sudden weight, and then the floor rushing up in a punch-drunk smack of cold marble.

Usually, Linden knew his tolerance, until it got higher and he had to adapt to survive. But this time had been different; this time, he was at least two kilos thinner. They'd taken in his clothes before the party, pinched-lips and shaking heads he barely registered. Wherever the weight had gone, it had left him sparser, paler and more vulnerable, and as he did what he needed to in order to stay alive in the colorful sea of sick indulgence, the room had started spinning, too much, too fast, too LOUD.

The rest was related to him later after he woke up. He learned that he'd been dead for a few minutes after his heart stopped, and then that his rib cage had been cracked open like a Capitol child's birthday gift so they could restart it. All very desperate and dramatic, and under the hazy influence of the good drugs that weren't even usually accessible to Victors, he'd resented that they couldn't just leave him alone after what was probably a better run than he'd ever counted on having.

Rehab, as usual, was terrible. Nothing happened or changed there. Folding paper into fragile flowers, talking about feelings and productive ways to stave off cravings. Bullshit, in so many words. Linden saw it in the other addicts' eyes, met them, shared silent understanding and laughter. If those were truly alternatives, and life is so fine, why the hell would we run from it in the first place?

Counting down the days, the hours, the minutes has finally paid off. He's been released but not allowed to return to District 6 until after the next Arena when he'll presumably be stronger. They think that putting him here in the Capitol will keep his brittle, wasted body safer. They're wrong, of course, but it's a tired song and dance now, the futile cycle of keeping a man who wants to die present, painting roses in his cheeks and presenting him as a spokesman for a government he silently despises.

There's nothing to do for it, of course, but tie off his arm and examine his needle collection on the surface of a chessboard. Long-neglected pieces look on and silently judge him; the Bishops turn up their noses, the Knights gape hungrily. Linden looks for a vein that isn't collapsed, burst or otherwise destroyed. The suite, built for socializing with a large fireplace in the center of the room, is still and silent and crawling with anticipation. It almost doesn't matter that a doctor is on his way; what can he really do?

Comments

[evowhisperer]

He can hurry along and pick his needle, because he's not going to have a lot more time. There's a light rap at the door--twice, no more--before it's opened without waiting.

The doctor is tall, with a beauty that suggests years of living in the capitol, and a lack of the bearing that would mean it went all the way through. A no-name from the Districts, then? It isn't a far reach to guess that the games administrators have had to scrounge up whatever doctor was available to assign to this broken husk of a victor; the first ten they tried were at least close to the upper tiers of doctors in Panem. Salazar, by contrast, is in his early thirties at best; he's too young to be very experienced, and he's carrying a name that is virtually unknown.

He stops a few feet past the doorway, frowning.

"... What are you... Are you really already starting up again? Take that away from him," he adds to the aid that scurries after him. "They should've been confiscated a long time ago."

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's not expecting the new doctor to show up so quickly, or to give him such paltry warning before letting himself in without waiting for an answer. He spares him a glance and a quick up-and-down, and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, turning back to his previous task, apparently completely unconcerned with the new doctor's presence or what he's doing in plain and unabashed sight. He only really reacts when the aid starts to try to take away the paraphernalia, and then he bristles, brushes the needles off the chessboard, and flips the heavy wooden piece over so that it clatters loudly on the floor.

"Doctor patient confidentiality," he says in a loud monotone. "Get out."

[evowhisperer]

The aid startles, looking back up at Caesar with wide eyes.

He looks back flatly, inclines his head at the needles, then towards the door. The aid picks each needle up as though they have something transmittable through touch alone, cradling them gingerly as they leave.

Caesar turns back, folding his arms. "What is it?" Ah, weaknenss: there's a lack of force to his tone that isn't pushing back at all. He's a wall, not a hurricane, and now that he's enforced his own little line he's briefly satisfied.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden, conversely, is a hurricane, wiry and furious and destructive in ways that his surface fragility belies. He glowers as his needles are taken, but it's an annoyance rather than a devastating blow to an addiction he covets and cherishes, there being nothing else. He has others hidden. They're everywhere. It would take weeks of continuous searching to find even half of them.

"What it is..." he starts, "is that I want you to go away. I've had enough of doctors lately. It's not that you don't seem perfectly nice, and I'm sure you're good at what you do, but there's one good thing in my life right now and we can make this go a lot easier if you just let me have it."

He stands. He's wretchedly thin, looking like a starved, stunted teenager in a poorer District despite being a man in his late twenties. "Let's get it over with. You want to play doctor? Drop your pants."

[evowhisperer]

Caesar tears his eyes away from underweight and track marks, not freckles, and it's a whole second before it actually sinks in.

"... What?" 'Oh,' his eyes say, 'THIS tribute. The one with the stories told loudly in breakrooms and after-hours drinking games.' As if the wall analogy weren't accurate enough, he closes off, creasing his face in a strained, fixed smile.

"I'm afraid that's not an option. Maybe we can find you a different outlet later. Until then, your health is our first concern."

[dead_black_eyes]

That Tribute, indeed. Linden's certainly isn't a new Victor anymore, but he's still popular among a certain subset of Capitolites. Those who want to be pleasured by a skilled mouth, try something deviant, or simply feel strong and superior when compared to one of Panem's champions still seek him out, and by this point, he knows how to deal with them and give them what they want.

Hell, as long as he's blunted and dulled by Morphling, it doesn't matter what they want. He does it, gets them gone, enjoys the rest of his high after cleaning himself up.

"It's been an option for roughly 40% of your predecessors," Linden says dryly. "You can get off, and then you can get out, and we'll both be happy."

[evowhisperer]

He frowns.

"No wonder you're--what, is it forty pounds underweight?" He waves the clipboard in one hand, lifting his chin. "I'm sorry, but until they can find you a permanent physician I'm going to be overseeing your post-rehab recovery. That means your weight is going to come up, your iron deficiency is going down, and if there's time you'll be getting exercise."

He lowers the clipboard, gesturing. "You may as well sit back down. I'd like to go over the details of this with you, since we're both here."

He has no idea what a mess he's getting into, does he? Is it faith in both of them or naivete that gives him so much confidence? Well, they'll soon find out.

[dead_black_eyes]

The number gets raised eyebrows and then a snort of derisive laughter. "Really, forty? That's a lot," he comments, while clearly not taking it particularly seriously. Nor does he take the goals seriously, because in his mind, they are unlikely to ever make it that far. In his mind, this has already become a game to him, a chance to gleefully sabotage someone else's attempts to save his life.

"Do you get off on power?" he asks in a voice like syrup, pulling at his lower lip with a curved finger. "That's why so many become doctors. They like telling people what to do, the weight of life and death scaring them into obeying, right? Are you going to tell me that the next time I overdose, my heart won't take it and I'll die?"

He doesn't sit back down. Rather, he drops to his knees in front of Caesar and begins to work at his belt buckle with quick, nimble fingers.

"I won the Hunger Games. I'm not afraid of death."

[evowhisperer]

Caesar's hands close around his buckle before Linden can do more than snag at the outermost flap, and in the process he catches one of the man's hands. His free one re-tucks the belt as he steps back.

He kneels on the spot. "Sitting there is fine. Wait one moment--" The hand holding Linden moves to his wrist, pressing into his pulse. He glances at his watch, concentrating for no more than three seconds.

"There. Ah--As I was saying, you've been approved to start some unusual treatments, and I think they would go a lot more smoothly if we could have your full co-operation. Do you inject yourself in both arms equally?" he adds, tugging the man's wrist to expose his inner elbow.

His ears are burning, and he doesn't quite meet Linden's gaze. Rather than coming off as bashful, the effect is somewhere between skittish and dehumanizing: he doesn't have to connect with the man, and despite his polite words he's already taking what he wants.

[dead_black_eyes]

Even if people occasionally put up some token resistance, in Linden's experience, Capitolites bend quickly to his will when he takes control. Usually there's some ensuing guilt for caving, which makes them do what he wants, which is usually leaving him alone. In his mind, Caesar is telling him that it's not an option because he's supposed to, but Linden's already on his knees, already has his hands on the buckle...

...and then he doesn't, and Caesar's kneeling to meet his gaze. Though it starts shocked, it narrows quickly to something very displeased with the direction this appointment is taking. The pulse under Caesar's fingers is quick and erratic, as one might expect from a heart that's recently been stressed badly.

"I'm not interested," he says loudly, altering his cadence to ensure that Caesar has to concentrate harder to understand him, therefore making it more difficult to accurately count the beats of his heart. "Through all of this it's not like anyone's ever asked me what I'd prefer, and maybe I'd cooperate more if you bothered to do that for once."

He fidgets under Caesar's touch, squirming as his sleeve is tugged up to expose a bone-white and bone-thin forearm, rich with track marks.

"I don't know," he answers evasively. "Probably. I just look for a vein, it doesn't even have to be in the arms." He raises his voice. "Look at me when I'm talking to you. It's not an autopsy yet."

He laughs, and it's a harsh, jarring, mean-spirited sound.

[evowhisperer]

Caesar looks up and releases the arm, settling back onto his heels. There's still some aloofness, even while looking eye-to-eye, but it's not as strong. Linden also has a direct line to see the flicker of satisfaction stealing through his eyes, even if it transforms into pleasant apology as soon as it appears.

"Sorry. I thought that there was no point in asking until you'd heard what the request was. Mostly this would consist of dietary supplements." He produces a slip of paper with computer-like notes jotted down. There's no sweep of the eyes to indicate actually reading from it. "Four, in the morning and evening. There would also be checkups for your progress, and then any other procedures that your next doctor judges are necessary for a complete return to health."

Dark eyes flick back to Linden. "We need your signature before we can proceed."

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's eyes, conversely, narrow. He's unhappy with the way this entire meeting is going, and making little effort to conceal it. His contempt for Caesar is starting to surpass the default contempt he feels for doctors in general. It's partly because of his distant and unflappable manner, which he feels is inappropriate and unfair for one so young to possess yet. It's mostly because the assumption that he would respond to a Victor's bribe of a well-known skill failed to ensnare the man in a clear professional breach and abuse of his authority. He could have used that; but this? Actual medical care? He can do nothing with it.

"Dietary supplements? No way is it that simple," he spits. "I don't want them and I don't want to sign anything."

It's petty at this point, and Linden doesn't care. What it comes down to is that he needs this doctor to fail at his job in at least one way, and failing to obtain a signature that they both know he doesn't actually need will have to suffice.

"I was ready to swallow something without putting up a fight, but you missed your chance," he shrugs, going back to his chessboard and starting to arrange the pieces with skeletal fingers. Most people don't pay close enough attention to him to recognize that it's the same endgame he played with Scorpii in the Arena, that he has spent endless years revisiting.

[evowhisperer]

Caesar rises to his feet again, watching him work. Distantly he notes that the odd arrangement of the pieces surrounding a certain pawn is the same as it was when he first entered. Is it the same game? This victor was known for his memory and record for mental games, wasn't he?

"You're right, it's not that simple," he concedes, trying for diplomatic. "The supplements are expected to do a lot of your work for you, so that you don't actually have to change much of your lifestyle, but we'll need scans and blood tests." A pause. "Regular ones. Enough to ensure that your body isn't rejecting the changes or reacting poorly. Does that sound reasonable?"

He approaches the board's other side, looking down without sitting.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden was known for many things, but he's one of the cleverest ever Victors. At his peak, he might have been the cleverest. That was before he chose to look for heaven in a syringe rather than deal with the deafening Hell surrounding him at all hours of the day and night. But the closest thing he has found that isn't a drug is chess, and in particular this game. It's the one he lost, and he takes strange comfort in staring at it. It makes sense to him the way his victory never has.

"It sounds reasonable," Linden says dryly. "But you're relying on me being reasonable to accept it, aren't you? You must not work with a lot of Victors."

Or addicts, he doesn't add, because one of those groups is certainly more prestigious than the other.

"Just how much of my lifestyle wouldn't have to change? There's really only one part of it that much matters to me."

[evowhisperer]

"Very little, actually," he says, glancing up. "You might feel inclined to change your habits as you start to feel better, but that, ah, part would be optional."

Optional, but also extremely likely. The 'supplements' are expected to block the rewards the drugs give, taking away the biggest incentive towards them in the first place. Linden might still take them due to the lingering addiction, of course, but as far as change goes--well, this would come from 'within', wouldn't it?

[dead_black_eyes]

A shadow falls over Linden's features, distrustful and suspicious.

"Why would I feel inclined to change consuming the thing that makes me feel better?" He asks, seeming both skeptical and resentful of the claim. Though he's not proud of being an addict, exactly, or even in denial that he has a substance abuse problem, he is not ashamed, either. Even the threat of his heart stopping forever isn't enough of an incentive for him to stop. He has one thing left to protect and nurture and even though the doses he needs these days to get high at all are potent and dangerous, he doesn't want to cut back or stop.

"You really think that getting physically healthy will make me want to stop? I was physically healthy when I started, you know."

[evowhisperer]

Cesar's eyebrows float up as he quickly recalculates. "Ah, well. I suppose you might not stop taking them after all. But you will be healthier... A stronger heart, fewer toxins..."

He stands, and although he's not foolish enough to smile winningly, he's not persuasive enough to know any tact to take besides neutral innocence. Stick to deflection, Salazar, it'll last longer.

He lifts the top few pages on his clipboard, producing a pen from one pocket.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden's eyes don't miss that, and they narrow. The doctor is trying to appease him, and he understands innately that he probably isn't above lying at this point in the game. Snow goes to great lengths to keep Victors alive, seeing their lives as his own possessions, and Linden doesn't imagine that he is above outright and blatant deception through those he hires to poke, prod and prescribe.

"Stop pretending that my signature matters. You're going to give me this stuff either way and make me undergo treatment," he says bluntly. "You don't have to change anything, or feel guilty. I'm not a Capitolite, so there's no reason, right?"

[evowhisperer]

He pauses, then pockets the pen once more. "You're not a Capitolite, that's true," He agrees, glancing to the side. "Even so. Victors..." He closes his mouth, then opens it. Again, he can't look Linden in the eye: victors have rights to nothing.

"You're entitled to as much choice in all of this as possible. This isn't about being cruel." He starts to smile, but stops, eyes dim. "You can control when you take the dosages. Depending on what we talk about, you might even control the dose."

They're pathetic concessions, and it's obvious that they're worthless to someone desperate for freedom from the situation altogether.

[dead_black_eyes]

If Linden's contempt was any more visible, he would have changed colors. What Caesar isn't saying, or is trying futilely to say in a way that is both true and tactful, is that Linden doesn't have any true rights. He knows that well enough and resents the hell out of it, and he takes what freedom he can, even if it's just to be a certifiable pain in the ass.

"You've never taken this, have you? You have no idea how this makes a person feel. No firsthand experience, anyway."

[evowhisperer]

Cesar is uncomfortable being there, but Linden's attempts to personally worsen this are hit or miss. Propositioning to him: successful enough that he starts pushing back. Reminding him of the meaninglessness of asking for any type of consent: enough for him to draw back a little, even if just for a span between words.

This contempt does nothing but roll off of him like water on a duck's back.

"No, nothing firsthand. I've worked with it enough to have an idea, however, so if you have any questions I'll certainly answer them." As though this is a good thing. His lips twitch upwards again, and he waits as though expecting a question here and now.

[dead_black_eyes]

Even if all this has proven that Caesar is objectively a more scrupulous person than most doctors in the Capitol, Linden's hackles are in a perpetual state of being raised, and that's showing no sign of changing. The abiilty to trust shudderes and dies in every child who goes into the arena, whether or not they come out again.

"OK. Are addicts that go on this glad that they did? What's the relapse rate, and what do they do instead of Morphling?"

[evowhisperer]

"Most of them are, yes. The relapse rate is very low, and often this treatment is accompanied by various types of therapy. They change their lives for the better, occupying their time with more productive endeavors."

His sales pitch is so polished he could be reading it from a jar label, complete with a winning, reasonable tone and smile. The only people who care about exact numbers are accountants, and occasionally the more skeptical doctor.

He doesn't come across those often in the Capitol.

[dead_black_eyes]

Linden sighs petulantly. "You might as well just avox me. I mean, they're productive after their 'treatment' and 'therapy', right?"

It's clear that the man resents, fully and heavily, being treated like a machine that is failing to fulfill its duties satisfactorily.

"I come to the Capitol for the Games. I'm a Mentor for District 6's kids. That is actually the extent of my mandatory productivity, until death. That was the agreement when I won. Forgive me if I can't get excited about being expected to do even more work."

[evowhisperer]

'What a child' is the thought crawling past hooded eyes. Close on its heels is, 'his life must seem meaningless.' It gains him a little sympathy, though not a lot.

"Then don't do more work," Cesar says calmly. "Take up a hobby. I know that the restored Ballet hall has become popular this year." Cesar would find it dull, but that's not his problem. It's not his job to entertain former victors, and it could only be loosely included that he cater to their sensitivities. 'Of course, a positive outlook would improve the treatment's chances of success...' Maybe he could mail him a tour-guide flyer. Something gaudy. That would catch the attention of a self absorbed hedonist with nothing left but his pleasures and drugs, right?

Cesar's eyes idly trace the chessboard with a glance, but he's not really thinking about it. It's something that seems out of place, and it draws his eye automatically.