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Adjusting to this has been easier than he thought. He actually helps, here, with fresh eyes and a pencil always in hand, asking questions he knows sound stupid. He's new. He's forgiven.
In retrospect, he's always been a confidence man, he just never really got reimbursed for his trouble.
"Con. Con man," Alec supplies. The bud still feels funny jammed in Cinna's ear, a non-stop feed of information related to the tasks at hand not unlike having Hardison physically at his side at all times. "Nobody says the whole word."
"Why would you use the term at all, then?" Cinna asks. He swears he can hear Hardison's shrug in the way the microphone picks up the shift of clothing against skin. The very thought is almost divine. Cinna's hands itch for the warmth and comfort of his sketchbook, the lines that represent Alec's body there.
"Most people don't, really. Everybody who knows what to look for can spot you, so there's no real need to resort to labels, per say. Not when you could talk about whatever crazy stunt you got away with last." Alec drawls. "It's the same way that you never called anyone 'soldier' to their face, soldier."
The memory induces a shiver of temerity. The quarter quell had been his last taste of that time in his life, being beaten in front of Katniss, paying for his vision in blood. He'd met Alec, there. He'd thought him imaginary after taking a few roundhouses to the face. Alec was just barely starved and his voice had been tense.
'Listen to me, I can only say this once. Snow expects me to kill you but I've seen what you can do and I need you alive. I'll get you out of here, but you gotta pull yourself together and you have trust me.'
Alec never has gone into detail of just how long he spent in Snow's Cabinet or how they hobbled back to pre-Panem, but Cinna's pretty sure he's grateful for that. It can't possibly be much different than the movies Hardison insists upon watching, filled with horror and growth and pain, with endings built on temporary happiness.
Alec owns the building they live in. The upper floor apartment is embarrassingly large, the most conspicuous arrangement that Alec could have fit in the space.
'I don't need much,' Hardison had told him that first time, after cleaning his wounds and explaining the situation in simple, almost compassionate terms. 'Master bedroom's yours if you want it. You'll use the space better than I will.'
The master bedroom is painted lavender-grey, the furniture well used. There's a decanter of liquor on the bureau, metal bookcases stuffed with books. There are pictures of insects on the walls, the leather chair in the corner is battered and worn. It feels like someone lived here, seriously lived here before Cinna came. So, he does the polite thing: 'I can't take this, Alec. After all you've done?'
Alec's far-off smile is heartbreaking, and he shakes his head, 'I don't want it, and I can't bring myself to change it so I would want it. So its yours, and you can do whatever you want with it. You won't find a better deal in this city.'
'Twisting my arm already,' Cinna jokes. 'As if I could say no.'
'You can. It'd just make settling in harder, I guess.' Alec shrugs. 'What's your last name?'
Cinna's brows furrow, even though it still hurts a bit to move. 'I've never had the need for one, truthfully,' he says. When he meets Hardison's eyes, they're filled with determination, like he's meant for this.
'I can work with that,' He'd said. 'Hold tight.'
As Alec scurries away, Cinna looks around and finally sits on the bed. The sheets and trinkets are expertly arranged, folded and placed with uncanny military precision, but the air smells stale. It's been a long time since anyone inhabited here.
He walks up to one of the windows, rolling up the shade. His fingers trace the design. He reaches for the lever that unlocks, lifts it a crack.
Outside, it smells like the kind of autumn everyone in the Capitol sold but never saw.
Cinna stuffs his hands into the pockets of his woolen coat. He licks his lips and huddles in the body-warmth of his own collar as it begins to snow once more. He sighs, it's been off and on all day with fresh white powder continuously covering gritty Boston grey. 2015 is different: it's calmer in its cruelties. There's no great war or rebellion but the stench of self-denial still rolls off people in waves. The only way Cinna doesn't find the discovery disheartening is to chalk the whole thing up to human nature.
"Are you done yet?" he asks, impatiently. The alleyway is steadily filling with pushed-aside remnants from a nearby snow plow clearing the road. If he doesn't move soon, they'll have to start this whole process over again on a nicer day.
"Hold on, hold on," Alec mutters in his ear, typing rapid fire commands and navigating through some grand design. "I'm done."
"Good," Cinna nods. He walks up to the nearest guard, asks for a cigarette, lifts the wallet out the guy's pocket like it's nobody's business ('No, you'll have to learn how to do this without anybody feeling it. Let me teach you how she did it, you have to do it by touch, see? Here, try on me', Alec had said, arms akimbo as he'd let Cinna bump against him, steal keys and cards and phones with a flick of a wrist until he'd gotten the touch just right), pulling out his own lighter for the cigarette and walking off. There's another man standing by the door of the loading dock and Cinna stubs out the cigarette before giving the guy one hard blow to the back of the head to force a quick knock-out ('Your body's still telling me you're about to attack. You've got to be casual. Here, like this. Angle your body this way before you throw yourself at me. It'll work to your advantage if I can't see it coming,' he'd rolled his body into Cinna's, arms blocking easily thrown punches and redirecting the force back into Cinna's fists).
The leather gloves he's wearing creak as he lunges to catch the guard before the guy falls to the ground and leaves an imprint in fresh snow.
In the days after, Cinna spends a lot of time wondering what happened to Hardison's friends that made him want to run away to a place like Panem. People don't run to the Capitol, they don't magically appear in unless they're attempting to bury the things they once were: poor, hungry, without direction. Even worse, he wonders how many people Alec ruined in the name of finding someone worth his time. Every time he's even attempted asking about anything, be it the very real sword in their closet or the ragged stuffed bunny shoved into the corner in Alec's sliver of a bedroom, Hardison just shrugs it off with a cocksure smile that never reaches his eyes.
'Age of the geek, babe.'
Cinna doesn't know what that means. He knows, however, that you simply must stop once someone gets that lost, saddened look in their eyes. He knows that from Katniss, Haymich, everyone he's ever known.
Alec turns, reaches for a box and pushes it across the table. It's got a little biometric lock, like the kind Hardison's been teaching him to hack.
'A test?' he'd asked.
'A gift,' Alec had replied. Cinna flicks a finger across the lock, hears it pop open. There's a folder, filled with documents. Numbers, addresses, a false name.
'This is most everything you'll need to survive here. Driver's license, Social Security. Passports, one from here and another from the European Union. We'll work on your French accent later. Employment records, Diplomas, health records, credit score, proof you paid off your student loans...'
There's a small box in the corner. Cinna's fingers pry it out, open it. It's his eyeliner, the one that disappeared from his desk in the days before the Quell. A small makeup brush sits alongside it. Hardison falls quiet as Cinna flicks the case open, taps a finger against the top. His lips curl into a smile.
'For when you get homesick. I would have swiped your sketchbook, but...
'No,' Cinna shakes his head. 'They need that more than I do. But this, this means a lot.'
'You won't be able to use it for very long, but I think we can find you something like it. An old friend of mine used to wear things like that.'Hardison says. He sounds incredibly distant. 'I know the right places to look.'
The door opens easily with the swipe card, and Cinna opens his coat to reveal the same white uniform shirt that the dock-worker was wearing. He takes the cap from his head and shoves it into one of the pockets, leaves it hanging for a second so he can look around the room. The ledger's here, he knows it.
It takes a bit of searching, nowhere obvious. But he finds it, the box with the gold and the ledger and he's suddenly putting his coat back on and putting everything just as it was, switching out the book for one with loaded information.
"Got it." Cinna whispers.
"I'm holding the door open for you," Alec replies.
It's here where Cinna's planning always seems to shine: the uniform panel with its little badge rips away to reveal a thinner fabric, the kind office worker-bees wear around here. Cinna reaches into his pocket for Alec's glasses, and slides the dread-cap from his shaven head. The notebook tucks into the trick pocket in his coat, a perfect fit. He clips on the corporate badge Alec made him so he could get out using the front door.
The keycard from the wallet he'd stolen gets him through the first few sets of security doors. Places like this don't seem to have much in common with the Capitol's halls, but there is the same general feeling of double-dealing and misery. He tries to submerse himself in it as he steps out of the supplier's office and onto the main floor. He hunches over, hands in his pockets, looking like a burnt out employee on the way to lunch. The hat flips inside out, changes shape and he makes a show of putting it on for the camera, pulling out Alec's scarf from another trick pocket and wrapping it around his neck. He looks nothing like he did before.
"Mary," he turns to the receptionist, "I'm going to lunch. Would you like me to bring back anything?"
The woman's head pops up from her desk, looking swamped. She gives him a kind smile, like he's the first person in forever to ask. He didn't even think he'd gotten her name right. "No, I don't think so. Thanks."
"Suit yourself."
Alec's car is across the courtyard. He's standing near a bench, blowing hot air into his hands. Cinna smiles at him.
"I love it when a plan comes together," Alec grins back, a well-natured tilt of his lips.
Cinna can hear Mary shouting behind him. "Hey, hey you!"
Alec looks at the woman, and then reaches out for Cinna's cheek with ice cold hands. Cinna knows the play, knows this is always a good alibi for how they'd know each other, and leans in close. Their lips graze against each other, chapped-soft and quick-sure. His hands clench, pulling one over on a mark like this sometimes twists the knot of desire he has to figure everything out-- see Alec at Beauty Base One-- into something hotter, more desperate. And he feels Alec lean in a little, his mouth opening, heat escaping. It's so tempting to meet him.
He can't, not now, not when he's still a soldier executing a mission.
Mary's caught up to him, places a hand on Cinna's shoulder. He breaks away from Alec's mouth, catching a chill of wind across his body. He huddles a little deeper into his jacket and turns to look at her. She sticks her other hand out, holding something small. Her eyes shine with knowing, although Cinna's not sure what she knows. She looks frumpy and cold in the snow without her coat.
"You dropped this in there," she says, softly. He holds his hand out for it, smiling gratefully.
"Thanks. Wouldn't have wanted to forget that," he says, charmingly. "You sure you don't want us to get you anything?"
"Nah, don't worry about it. I don't think I'll be around here for very much longer, anyway," she shrugs. Cinna tries to memorize her face so he can find her, give her something off their cut. Alec's skin feels warm as he pushes his hand into Cinna's other pocket, fingers sliding against Cinna's palm. And it's awkward, sharpened angles, but Mary turns and walks back into the building and they turn, walking away.
Hardison plugs the trinket into one of his computers, he looks down at the little book Cinna stole and looks up again with wide eyes.
"What?" Cinna asks from across the table.
"I didn't even realize we'd have to crack the paper ledger, but she gave us the records I couldn't find in the system, and the key," Hardison says, shaking his head. "We've got everything we need to take them down."
Cinna gets up, looks over Hardison's shoulder to see a cascade of files that reveal the trail of guilt that he's grown so familiar with seeing emerge in this line of work. His hand falls onto Alec's shoulder, the soft cotton soothing as he'd pat him on the back. He walks over to the decanter he'd brought down from his bedroom, reaches for two glasses.
They've never really touched it, the liquid left behind when the bar's down a few flights of stairs. Still, Cinna undoes the crystal stopper gently, holds it under his nose. It's something he's never smelled before. It's already so different than the stable white liquor that he and Haymitch would drink.
"Irish whiskey. Been in that bottle for a few years, now." Hardison tells him, getting up from the chair. "Was in another bottle for 25 years before that."
He pours a finger into each glass. He pauses to slide the stopper back in, pushing a glass into Alec's hand.
"To victory," Cinna toasts.
"To a life where victory means something beyond allowances to live," Alec replies and Cinna, still battered and broken from the old one, swallows all this history down. The alcohol burns sliding down his throat, hints of oak and grainy spice. The shaky exhale afterward is interrupted as Alec takes Cinna's face into his hands, presses their mouths together once more. This feels more passionate, as Cinna's mouth tips up just a little, chasing the taste of whiskey on Alec's tongue.
It's hard not to want more when they part.
"You're all living double lives here, aren't you? That's the secret of it all, right?" Cinna asks thinly, the bitter taste of everything here so new. The question looks like it shocks Hardison a bit, like maybe it hits home. And that knot of desire crawls into Cinna's throat, so close to spilling out. He itches to return Hardison's care ten-fold.
"Like I said, people know what to look for," he says. "Not unlike Panem."
Everybody back there thinks he's been tortured to death. Everybody back there thinks he'd done it all for the good of 13 and the rebels. Everybody back there thinks he was a terrorist of the highest caliber, preying upon weak minds and broken spirits. Everybody back there thinks he was a hedonist, his vices tucked just under his conservative facade. In the corners of every district, everybody calls him a martyr. The ones who know the story always have.
He's just realizing now that everybody was right.
Cinna takes it all in for a moment, standing with the man who simultaneously killed and saved him, quietly falling in love with the mystery of the cold-bloodedness at his core. The glimmer of heat and desire he sees in Hardison's eyes in lieu of his normal stoicism feels like a knife to the chest. He wishes he could tell the stories of Hardison's life in the lay of fabric, in twisting funnel collars and straight-legged trousers that gain energy with every step. One day, he'll find the materials needed to dress Alec like the hurricane he is. One day, he'll know the twist of Alec's story, the eye of his storm.
"Better than Panem," Cinna says, the words cool on his tongue. "Like it could be home. I haven't really ever had one of those before."
"Just wait," Alec replies, the most unsure he's ever sounded. "Just wait for me, okay?"
He doesn't even know where it comes from inside of him, but presses his forehead against Alec's, warm and oily skin to skin. His confession feels like blood spreading across a white shirt. "Trust me. I wouldn't abandon the man who saved my life."
Alec's mouth tightens around the edges like the core of him's been revealed. Cinna feels terrible but It's the best he can do right now. He's still new.
There's still much to discover. He know he'll be forgiven.