Lovely Ladies~ [Closed to earthling]

I look forward, to dying tonight, drinks till I'm myself,
life's harder every day

Locke digs his fingers beneath the band of his watch, scratching at the veins of his left arm. It is the perfect intersection point to remind him of what he's missing - free time and the one thing that makes his life tolerable. He pressed his nails to the flesh and when that doesn't work, rubs his rough fingertips over it. Nothing helps. He imagines using sandpaper - no, the shattered end of an iron rod. Yes, that might make the insistent, persistent feeling dissipate. That, or another hit, which really ought to be easier to find than broken metal, but his usual dealer was mysteriously absent, and he'd had to endure the company of a young, spunk Peacekeeper undoubtedly borne straight from the loins of Satan.

It was late enough. He had pulled his rank to get the good shifts, the ones during the daylight, so he could linger in a morphling coma while the world slept. The twilight is a harsher reminder than the time ticking away on his wrist. With a flick the watch disappears up his pristine white sleeve. Nothing to wreck it today; it had been utterly boring, which was probably why he was so desperate.

It was good, better even, when the itching became so bad it turned to pain. That he could use, and it never distracted him. His arm burned, the veins writhing, and it was pure relief. His steps slowed, evened, as he marched along the warehouses, doing his last round of duty and hoping to track down that little shithead who was supposed to be keeping him well supplied.

And then there she was. Locke spotted her before she him, and though he didn't know her personally, he wasn't a fool. He continued casually, steps clipped as a Peacekeeper's ought to be, his expression placid. He came to a halt with his toes perfectly aligned, his blue eyes boring into hers. Seduction whispered across her face, forced her eyebrow up. Hunger. That's all he felt.

"I think I ought to be the one offering you help." And it was not the least bit chivalrous. His job, just a job. But oh this would not be a job, not at all. This would be pleasure. There it was, spreading across his face, opening a smile that crooked too far to one side, promised everything. But it did not match his words. "But I can see you're quite capable of taking care of yourself. You have a good night now."

Locke tipped his chin, the smile swallowed up. Oh she was beautiful, still a little soft with youth, her skin so pale... it would show every bruise. His gaze lingered on her cheeks, her chin, for just a moment before he began to walk past her.

I look forward, to dying tonight, drinks till I'm myself,
life's harder every day

He came to a halt just before Charlotte stepped into his path. Had he known she would do that, anticipated it? Surely. He was a damn find Peacekeeper, after all, and half the job was predicting what a criminal would next, or even the turn after that. Life was one chess game, and it always paid to be one step ahead, even if that meant coming to a stand still. He tucked one hand behind his back, just above his hips, and leaned slightly into her as she cut off his exit. The other dangled at his side, just to be scooped up by the brazen girl.

Locke hadn't really wanted to leave, anyhow. Her hand, her silken flesh, held him captivated for a moment. And then she guided his hand to her chest, to the flat ribby part of it, and he pressed his index finger to the cave between her collar bone and neck, felt the echo of her pulse there.

"Over ninety bee-pee-em," Locke said, more to himself than her. He stared at the pulse in her elegant neck, and then forced his gaze up to capture hers. He held that pose for just a minute, and then without breaking eye contact, rolled his wrist so that his fingers slid around her neck, gripping her tightly but not enough to bruise, just enough to control. "Perhaps I could take you home if it's close enough," And his voice had changed, now deepened, darker. He broke eye contact to glance back the way he had come. Would there be somewhere more suitable?

Probably not, but there would certainly be somewhere less suitable, and he couldn't really afford to sully his white uniform or his Peacekeeper status by being caught with her in an alley way. He needed to be more discreet. But oh, the width of her eyes, the narrowness of her hips, the musky scent of her - Locke didn't want to wait too long. He moved his hand up to brush her cheek with his thumb, rough flesh over smooth. "You're a bit flushed.

I look forward, to dying tonight, drinks till I'm myself,
life's harder every day

There was that moment, that flash of panic, which let Locke know he was doing his job properly. Except this really wasn't a part of his job - according to his guidelines, he should have moved on once he had assessed the girl and found her neither a danger to herself, others, or to the Capitol. But he wasn't about that to do that, not when she was so pale in the moonlight. Her eyes, too, the size of them -- he couldn't quite look away, not for long. He wanted to know what secrets they held, who else had been reflected in them. It was a bit like being a detective, reading her face, only he wouldn't use the easy tactics, because he had no reason to.

That was the difference between someone who fought crime for a living and a Peacekeeper. While Locke got paid to do his job (and got paid well), this was a career, and he approached it the same way he would have approached the Games -- with his whole heart and fire. Nothing was too dangerous or too dramatic for him. If he didn't like someone, he'd ship them off to the Detention Center, and if they really pissed him off, he might put the barrel of his Alder pistol to their temple.

Life meant so very little to him. He hadn't really thought about hurting her, but that brief flush of fear turned his thoughts down a darker road. Certainly he could overpower her; there was no victory in that. No, he wanted something that she wasn't selling and wasn't easy to get. He'd figure what that was out soon enough.

With a casual flick of his wrist, Locke released her, and used his other hand to adjust his shirt, tugging it back into place. He studied his cuff links for a moment, imprinted with the seal of Panem, before he turned towards liquid blue eyes back to her. "Peacekeeper Helmsby," he said with a smirk, as though it could be forgotten that he was a man of the Capitol, as though his white uniform didn't reflect and repel all light.

He held up a hand to halt the conversation. "Don't tell me yours, at least not your given name. What's a name you'd like to have? Anything you can think of." That was safer, less intimate, and it made him less responsible, too.

I look forward, to dying tonight, drinks till I'm myself,
life's harder every day

She had such wide, wondering eyes. If not for them, he might have walked away. Well, and her legs. And her skin. Pretty much the whole package, actually, but especially her eyes. The rest of her screamed her profession out loud, declared her as a girl of the night, but those eyes... they could deceive. They were so big and innocent. They could take away pain, suspend time, promise impossible things. He could use eyes like that, and when she turned them up to him, Locke couldn't help but grin. Ah yes, there were things he could use her for, other than a night's passing. He might even be able to find more respectable work.

But somehow, Locke doubted she was here because of hard times. A girl as lovely as she could undoubtedly found some sort of man to shelter her (or woman, if she chose). No, he rather thought this was voluntary, which was both better (it somehow made his motivations more innocent), and worse (because she was so willing). Still, he wanted her, for her eyes. They were well matched in that way. Blue on blue on blue. He wondered how they reflected off one another, almost wanted to march her in front of a camera just to see. But that would be bad for him, and so he wouldn't. But still, would they reflect so deeply into one another that an ocean would open between them?

It was a bit more poetic than Locke's usual line of thought, and it amused him that she brought out his intellectual side. A whore was a whore was a whore, and yet no other girl had been able to mirror his gaze so exactly. "Charlotte," he tested the name on his tongue, pressed it to the roof of his mouth. "It's a little long, don't you think? But if it's what you like, I'll make do." Because he was such a generous fellow, first forcing her to pick a name, and then quibbling about the one she chose. Charlotte. It was a girl's name, someone young and delicate. It wasn't quite what he'd had in mind for her. Maybe he'd just change it later.

He held his hands behind his back, his official Peacekeeper posture. It suited him. His shoulders swelled against the fabric, which gave him a bit of a top-heavy silhouette. The rest of it lay crisp and clean against his body. "You'll have to lead us from here. I'm afraid I'm not very familiar with this part of town." Which was mostly a lie, although it wasn't like he had often looked for private rooms if he hadn't been hellbent on busting someone. He'd much rather see what sort of locale she chose and maybe he would discover somewhere new to patrol.