themadgirl | Finnick | Backstory

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Finnick | Backstory | Post-Tour

As it turned out, the Capitol's curiosity regarding its victors only carried so far.

Most of what Annie remembered about that night—What her escort had delicately labeled her "episode"—were little more than flashes, but with the benefit of time she could see how quickly it had all happened. There had been no attempt to return her to the ball, only Mags and Finnick bundling her swiftly onto the train. She'd lost one of her shoes at some point, like the old fairy story, and when she'd recalled this days later, she'd fallen into a sudden and manic laughing fit that lasted until she was half-hoarse.

When the train had begun to move that night and Finnick hadn't been on it, she'd laid down right where they'd placed her, curled up on her bed in her gown, hem dirty, one bare foot peeking from beneath frothy fabric. She wasn't certain how long it had been, but she remembered Mags coming in, and the gentle confidence of the old woman's fingers as she sat Annie up and carefully stripped her of the Capitol. Unpinning the weight of Annie's hair, wiping her face clean, and perhaps most tellingly, removing the dress by cutting it cleanly up the side with a pair of shears. Annie had stayed in bed the entire next day and then emerged thoroughly sober, freshly eighteen, and with a curt dismissal of her escort. Mags had given her the thumbs-up.

Her mother had hovered for awhile, had skirted on the edge of difficult questions but ultimately relented when no solid answers were forthcoming. With Annie so quiet and withdrawn, it wasn't unlike when she'd first returned from the games, but for two glaring differences: More introspection and less Finnick.

Today, Annie's mother had been the first, but not last, person to tell her about the train. Four was a large district, but in some respects it was like the smallest village, and word traveled fast. Preparing for a passenger train was unusual enough for assumptions to be made. Annie had gone for a walk.

Hours later she nudged her way through the back door and into the kitchen, shawl trailing behind her and laden basket hooked over one arm. Barefoot from the moment she returned from the Capitol, there was sand dusted like sugar up to her ankles and over her toes, and she tracked it inside without thought or hesitation. Following after was Bosun, who had been her father's water dog, a gentle giant in his old age with baleful brown eyes and silver sprinkled in his dark coat. From the moment Annie had stepped into the house after returning from the Capitol, he'd not left her side. Not once.

Just now he padded to the end of the kitchen table and sat, turning his wise, old gaze upon Finnick where he was lingering the hallway beyond. Basket still over her arm, Annie paused at the sink and flicked a glance to the doorway. Seeing Finnick again would hurt; she'd known that. What surprised her was how calm she felt, most of her anger bled out of her by time and resignation. Wordless, she turned her attention back to the basket and began carefully washing the sand from the shells she had collected.

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The sound of Annie's mother's voice jolted up Finnick's spine. He was unaccustomed to being sneaked up on, and it set him on edge even more now. The moment was easily smoothed over, perhaps only noticed by Annie, because he tensed for an instant within her arms.

In an instant he had his mask back in place, smiling as he turned around to meet Gaila's gaze. He slid so that he was beside Annie, one arm still tucked loosely around her waist.

"Your mother's right," Finnick echoed immediately, his voice something between a gentle chide and teasing. He moved so that he could adjust her shawl more soundly around her shoulders. "You don't want to catch cold." He kept smiling down at her, pressing the tip of one of his fingers gently to her nose.

He didn't dare think this conversation was over. Annie coming to terms with everything had a great impact on their relationship. If there still was going to be one. And Finnick didn't know if she needed more answers.

The interruption was horribly-timed, and not being nearly so gifted as Finnick at concealing her emotions, Annie couldn't keep the pinched look from her face as she watched her mother cross the room. Loving Gaila had never been an issue for her, but they were little alike beyond looks, and from the time she had been small, Annie had never been able to shake the pervasive feeling that she was constantly a deep disappointment to her mother.

More unsettling in the moment, though, was how quickly and easily Finnick had found his facade. Annie peered soberly back at him from over his hand and wondered if this was the same one he showed his family, or if he had a variety he chose from.

"…and you tracked half the beach in here," Gaila was muttering as she clattered around in a cupboard, looking for a broom.

Annie started for the hall without a word, catching hold of Finnick's hand as she passed, sand still trailing in her wake. At the top of the stairs she went not for her bedroom but the bathroom, tugging Finnick in after her and hastily locking the door. Once inside, she sat on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the water to rinse off her feet.

"She cried the day I got home," she said, her voice soft. "She said I've always kept secrets from her, ever since I was a little girl." Leaning forward, she braced her elbows on her knees and put her head in her hands, warm water swirling around her feet.

Finnick didn't think of not following after Annie. He smiled apologetically at her mother as they passed by, but twined his own fingers with Annie's. He merely tried to keep pace with her, but was secretly glad for some distance from everyone else. He wanted to be able to curl up with Annie for the next week, for the two of them to be able to hide away from the world. There wasn't anyway that was going to happen. His own family had to have known his train had come in, and there was only so long his sisters would tolerate him being at Annie's before they tracked him down, eager for stories from the Capitol and whatever presents he had brought them home.

Finnick sank down on the lip of the tub beside Annie as soon as she sat down. He pushed off his own shoes, glad to be free of them. He was fairly certain he could throw them out without Melia caring; they would be out of style by the time he went back. He rolled up the fabric of his pants to his knees and then turned so that he could stick his own feet in the growing water in the tub as well. He quietly reached for one of Annie's hands again, afraid to let go of her suddenly. His other hand went to the nape of her neck and began to massage quietly circles there, trying to ease the tension he could feel gathering in the corners of the room once again.

"She's scared," Finnick murmured quietly, pressing a soft kiss to Annie's temple, all the affection he could spare at the moment. "Because she knows you went through something she can't possibly understand." It was the same with his father. Finnick had been so bitter with him when he'd come home at 14, having done the impossible, having provided everything his family would need -- only for no praise to come from his father. There was a distance that grew and grew between them; at 19, Finnick thought that it had something to do with the fact that every parent prayed for their child to come out of the arena, but when they did, when they came home a victor, they weren't really a child anymore, and they certainly weren't the same person. Finnick had always wondered if his father had been horrified over how easily, how gracefully, he had killed, how proud he had been of being a victor, and maybe that was where the need to distance himself from Finnick had come, but Finnick had never asked, and he knew he never would. They interacted only when they had to, forced into familial interaction because of Finnick's mother and sisters. But outside of those occurrences, they avoided being left in the same room together.

"I don't know how to do this," Annie admitted without looking up. The water was to her ankles now, and she stared down at it a long moment before reaching up to turn off the faucet. Head tipped down, her dark hair hung in a thick curtain around her face.

"I don't know how to turn off my feelings," she said, her eyes screwing tightly closed. "They scream at me all the time. Every second." Not just the fear which the Games had printed indelibly upon her, and not just the horror and shame and jealousy of having seen Finnick like that, of knowing that he could never truly, completely be hers. The good things were amplified now, too, and sometimes it felt like she was full of so much love with no outlet that her heart might burst.

"I feel so stupid," she said, the words catching on a barely-restrained sob, and she leaned forward with the sound, arms crossed tightly over her stomach.

Finnick didn't bother to ask for clarification on what this meant, whether it was them or a more general sense of the word. He figured it didn't really matter. It all tied back into what he had just said; they were stranded after winning their games, roped off into a small group of people who couldn't ever see the world the same way. He was fairly certain that that was why they all hated and loved being around other victors.

He was about to tell her she didn't need to turn off her feelings when she began to cry. He leaned in instantly, reacting without thinking about it. He wrapped his arms around her the best that he could, holding her close, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her neck.

"Annie," he said, voice low, practically a whisper against the back of her neck, as if there was a chance of them being overheard. "You're okay."

An impulse lit bright and fleeting in her, to jump up and scream and throw something, to say and prove, right then and there, that she wasn't okay, that maybe she'd never be okay ever again. The urge flashed out almost as quickly as it arrived, however. She felt so damned worn now, like the process of hollowing her out had begun in the Games, and was now finally complete.

Maybe that was what she needed. To be hollowed out so thoroughly that she could carefully begin to fill herself up again.

She waited for her tears to ebb and then sat up, wiping at her cheeks as she turned to stare Finnick down with her weary, red-eyed gaze.

"You have to tell me what we are to you," she said. "Not a line, not what you think I want to hear. The truth." This was not a gauntlet or ultimatum, but practicality. She could have no idea of how to begin to process any of what had happened until she understood where Finnick was coming from, and Finnick was so very good at lying, even to himself.

Finnick looked back at her when she pinned him with her gaze. Maybe that was where it had all started, he thought vaguely. When she had been reaped and looked at him where he was on stage, he had felt, even then, that she was seeing right through him. Nobody else had ever made him feel that way.

He wanted to kiss her, as if that would help reassure her, but he refrained. It felt too much like a trick, as if he would be persuading her to believe him while distracting him from his actual words. He settled for running one of his thumbs gently along her cheek.

His own heart hurt in a way that it hadn't in a long time, as if it was mourning everything all at once. All the emotions he had hastily shoved to the side compacted into this moment, beating a litany to remind him that he was about to lose her. He was scared he was going to start crying as well.

"I'm in love with you," he said, throat tight. A simple truth, but one that had to be pried from him all the same. He could tell her about how frantic he had been to save her from the arena; he'd done things for her he'd never done for any other tribute. He could tell her that he was certain that she was the only thing he had left living for most days, but he was certain that that one sentence encompassed all of that.

"But I will never be able to make you happy," Finnick said, and there it was, the other half of their relationship that he held close to his heart. He might have helped get her out of the arena, but he couldn't give her a life after it.

"Don't tell me how I feel, Finnick Odair," Annie firmly replied, a trace of her mother in her tone. She kind of wanted to shove him, and even though she refrained, the impulse felt good, like something solid to hold onto. "You've been telling me how to do everything else since we met, but you don't get to do that. Besides, it's too late. It's done."

Her expression and words were edging on fierce, and she knew she probably wasn't very convincing, probably looked more like an angry kitten than anything else, but she needed him to know without a doubt that there was going to be no moving her on this. He could just forget about whatever stupid ideas he had about not being good enough.

"If you-" Her breath caught, throat working as her stomach flipped over. "If you love me, you'll trust me to make my own decision. I've made it. So if that doesn't work for you or- or-" Her bottom lip began to quiver, but she caught herself. "If you think it's too hard or too much work, you need to say so right now."

There was something painfully endearing when she told him off, forcibly telling him that she was capable of making her own decisions. Maybe it was simply that it was more familiar, or maybe it was that everyone always underestimated her and rarely saw this side of her. Or maybe it was just that very few people told him off like that anymore.

He didn't bother telling her that their situation wasn't likely to change anytime soon, that he was going to spend more time in the Capitol than he would in Four. They would say goodbye all the time, and when he was in the Capitol, he would sleep with too many people, and a lot of that would leak into the tabloids. He didn't bother telling her that they would never be able to have a public relationship -- because she was smart and she'd had two weeks to think about all of this. She understood it in theory.

"It's not too much work," he answered gently. "And I promise I won't lie to you anymore. If you want to know something, I will tell you. And if I can't tell you something because it's to keep someone safe, I'll tell you that, too." He hesitated, suspecting that he already knew what her answer was going to be to the next part, but he wanted her to hear it anyway. It might not make a difference today, but sometime in the future it might.

"And I want you to promise me, that if there's ever anyone else you think could make you happy, you'll try with them, all right?" Finnick asked. It was still her decision then.

Annie did push him then, almost hard enough to knock him down into the water.

"No," she yelled at him, her mouth screwed up into an incensed little moue. "I'm not going to promise you that, because you're still telling me what to do! You don't get to cheat by phrasing it as a question, Finnick. So just stop. Right now."

Unshed tears shining in her eyes, she pushed herself up and sloshed angrily from the bathtub.

"No one else is going to make me happy," she quietly said as she stood before the towel rack, frowning. "I know you think I'm too young or too crazy to know better, but I know who I am, Finnick."

Finnick did come precariously close to losing his balance when she pushed at him; only one of his hands hastily grabbing the lip of the tub saved him from going in completely. It was no surprise that she wouldn't agree with it now.

He tried to give her some space until she abruptly launched into her speculation on what he thought of her. Then, he was up in a minute, chasing after her again. He crossed the small space of the bathroom, feet leaking water across the floor. He put both his hands on her shoulders, turning her gently so that she was facing him.

"I do not think you are crazy," he said firmly. They all had their scars from the Hunger Games, and she had seen things that most people would never deal with in their life. "If you say this is what you want, I believe you. What else do you need from me to make us work?"

So much of Annie's time over the last two weeks had been spent in thinking about this moment that she hadn't allowed herself to think about what would happen after. She stared up at Finnick, looking chastised and uncertain.

"I don't know," she admitted, and blinked back the tears in her eyes. "Just… don't forget about me, I guess. That's all."

"I couldn't ever forget about you," Finnick murmured with distinct affection. He ran the pad of his thumb lightly over her cheek again as if trying to stave off any potential tears. He pressed his forehead gently against hers, closing up the distance between them.

"I leave every part of me that matters here with you, you understand?" he said quietly, as if he was sharing a secret with her. In a way, he was -- their most important secret. He had never loved anybody he'd slept with and had a very clear distinction between sex and emotion. But she had his heart, absolutely.

She reached for him, one hand sliding around to the back of his neck, the other splaying firmly over his heart. His heartbeat was steady beneath her palm, and she dropped her eyes closed, just for a moment, focusing on that rhythmic thump.

"I'll keep it safe," she swore, and slowly opened her eyes again. "Just promise you'll come back for it."

He couldn't help but watch her -- admire her -- as her eyes fell shut, lashes dark against her skin. Her hand was warm even through the thin fabric of his shirt, and he wished they could have stayed like that forever. Every moment that fell into place, peaceful and perfect, he cherished, tucking away to keep for when things went to hell again.

"I promise I'll come back for it," Finnick answered without any hesitation. He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth, just the barest touch of his flesh against hers.

They were stronger together, of that Annie was absolutely certain. But still, it felt now as if every move they made was careful, delicate, as if this difficult compromise was impossibly fragile and might shatter should they apply too much force.

With a quiet, yearning sound, Annie leaned into him, her lips instinctively parting, this kiss almost as gentle and tentative as their first. It felt like they had to learn each other all over again; they were different people now, their eyes opened to too many things to pretend anymore.

"I missed you," she breathed into Finnick's mouth, her fingers sliding up into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I missed you," Finnick answered automatically, relaxing underneath the press of her fingers in his hair. He didn't even consider pulling away from her now. They were right where they should be.

"I want to hide with you for at least a week," Finnick commented, his hands sliding gently down her arms, reuniting himself with how touch for touch's sake felt.

When this had first started, Annie had thought she'd been realistic. The Games had instilled in her an unshakable wariness, and she'd understood that her life would never fully be her own. The Capitol could come in and make demands at any time—Finnick's busy schedule had been proof of that. Yet, she'd fooled herself into thinking they might have something approaching a normal relationship, that they might maybe, someday, be able to live together. In her wildest, most secret teenage dreams, she'd imagined a family, too, and a quieter life once they were old enough for the Capitol to have grown tired of them.

Now there would only be these stolen moments, she realized, and even those had to remain secret, away from prying eyes. Yet, the idea of giving them up was unthinkable. She'd take what little she could get.

"I wish it wasn't so cold, we could camp," she said, gooseflesh rising on her arms in the wake of Finnick's roaming hands. Use of boats and anything related to them was strictly regulated, but there was a little cave carved out of a bluff a couple of miles away where they'd stolen kisses before. Here, she wasn't sure how they'd manage much privacy between Finnick's family and her own.

"I know," Finnick murmured, his fingers journeying over the jut of her elbows and then her wrists so he could tangle his own fingers with hers.

"We'll work something out though, right?" he said, a small smile crossing his lips. He tucked his fingers gently under her chin and pressed another soft kiss to her mouth.

He wasn't sure if he had really felt like he was home until that moment. It hearkened back, he supposed, to the weeks they had spent together before the Victory Tour. Even then he had known that things would be difficult, but it had been okay, because it was the two of them working together.

Annie quietly nodded her assent and slipped her arms firmly around Finnick, drawing herself close to nuzzle in against his chest with a sigh. Getting around her mother might prove to be difficult. In retrospect, it was obvious that Gaila had been wiser to the situation than Annie had been, having warned her daughter early on that she'd never be able to marry or make a real life with Finnick Odair. At the time, Annie had simply taken it as a remark on Finnick's character and had responded with the typical overblown teenage reaction, but she saw now that this had probably been her mother's attempt to salvage Annie's reputation before it was too late.

Funny, how Gaila and Finnick apparently had that in common, and Annie refused to listen to either of them.

"Have you been home?" she asked, lifting her head from Finnick's shoulder to peer curiously up at him.

Finnick wrapped his arms around when she pressed in against his chest. He pressed his face momentarily to the top of her head and closed his eyes, just content to listening to them breathe. The start of Annie's tour felt like eons ago. It was strange how much a few weeks had changed them.

"No," Finnick answered, glancing down at her when she looked up at him. He pushed some of her hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips linger. "I'm sure Sara will come looking soon," he said with a faint smile. His mother was probably the only thing keeping his youngest sister from tearing over to Annie's house to reclaim him. His mother, who perhaps had the strongest delusions about just what had happened after his Games, seemed to believe that Annie would help drive him away from the lifestyle he'd developed in the Capitol. He dreaded whatever she was going to say when he got home.

"Do you want to come over for dinner?" Finnick asked quietly, his fingers idly touching her, gently caressing the line of her neck. It was probably too soon, he thought. He didn't want to let go of her yet, but it would probably be too much for her to sit there and listen to him lie to his family about everything that had happened.

Their agreement was still so freshly-decided that it was impossible yet to know whether sharing that sort of domesticity would make things easier or more difficult, regardless of whatever fiction they'd be required to spin. Even so, Annie was incapable of refusing, the allure even of pretending at normalcy with Finnick far too strong, and she nodded.

"Let me change," she replied, her feet still bare and the hem of her skirt stiff with dried salt water. Finnick's family saw her nearly every day in various states of disorder, yet somehow it mattered how she looked.

Edited 2014-03-04 16:47 (UTC)

Finnick cupped her face after she answered, kissing her for a long moment. He wanted so badly to be deserving of her. He knew the start of the dinner would hurt -- they would be excited to hear about where they had gone in the Capitol and what they had eaten. Had they got to meet the president again, and they'd probably gush over how pretty Annie's dress had been. All that would hurt beyond hell. But after that, the Capitol would fade to the background, and it would be him, at home, with his family, with Annie, with Mags -- where he was supposed to be.

"I love you," Finnick breathed against Annie's lips. He felt emboldened now that he had said it once, and he wanted to tell her it every day, every hour. "I'll wait downstairs." Finnick suggested, figuring he owed some reassurance to Annie's mom after they had been up here for so long, locked in the bathroom while Annie shouted at him.

Would she ever truly get used to hearing those words? With the way her whole body seemed to react, breath catching and pulse kicking up a notch, it was difficult to imagine that she would.

"I love you, too," Annie replied, finding it was infinitely easier to say now, even if she'd not shied away from admitting it in the first place. More than anything, she wanted to linger here, in this small safe place they'd created, in the warmth of Finnick's arms, in the weight of those words. In the end, she gave herself a few moments more, and then began, slowly, to step toward the door.

"I won't be long," she promised, fingers keeping hold of Finnick's until the last possible moment, when she turned, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the hall.

Finnick smiled at her as she turned, keeping his fingers linked in hers until she let go. Once she had disappeared into the hallway, he hastily pushed his shoes back on and headed downstairs to sit with Annie's mom. Oddly, trying to convince his girlfriend's mother to like him was probably the most normal part of their relationship overall, even if Annie's mom didn't have entirely valid reasons for disliking him. Still, it was easy enough to talk about things that didn't particularly matter; if there was anything he was good at it, it was distracting conversation.

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