"Some of the people at home, anyway," Loki muttered. "Hard to say how many." He was no fool. Even with the districts' discontent looming large, there was little talk of it in the upper echelons of Capitol society, even behind closed doors. The cause of the silence depended on the person -- fear was part of it, certainly, but ignorance was, Loki suspected, the greater factor. Even in the Capitol, President Stane had done an admirable, if imperfect, job of downplaying any bad news from the Districts, but even so, there was enough chatter leaking through that Loki understood just how sour things could go, and how quickly.
And even here, at the heart of it, it was easy to tell that the tone of this year's Games was more subdued than it had been for years. It would be good TV, certainly, but Loki was surer than ever now that even if this was the most compelling show yet, it would be the least well-received.
Loki should his head slowly, his vision swimming a little, making him grip the table with one hand while the other reached impulsively for a pair of flower cutters. He had to concentrate hard as he severed the loveliest blooms, holding them delicately. "It may be cruel, but I did sign up for it," Loki said, as he worked. "Not this, necessarily, but one could argue that I've always been a more willing participant than some."
He pivoted toward Bucky, flowers in hand, and looked him in the eyes, his chin high, even as his steps wobbled as he headed back his way, toward the lilies. "Tell me what you want, Mr. Barnes. Your empathy is touching, really, it is, but you wouldn't be here without some other motive. So I assume that you're either here to kill me -- an easy feat for you, even if I weren't drunk -- or to reason with me. Which is it?"