Finnick | Backstory | Post-Tour

[themadgirl]

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 With Annie so quiet and withdrawn, it wasn't unlike when she'd first returned from the games, but for two glaring differences: More introspection and less Finnick.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.

Comments

[65th_victor]

It had been an agonizing two weeks.

He didn't know if he or the Aldjoys had been more surprised when Melia had discreetly appeared at the entrance to the library where Finnick was still not quite dressed. Of course, she had handled the situation with a suitable amount of tact. (Finnick had a theory that all of the seriousness in the Capitol had been distilled into Melia. She wasn't like any other stylist he had ever known, which was obviously why she was his. Snow's administration had searched left and right for someone who wasn't going to try to sleep with him, and Melia had been the result of that search.)

He hadn't known what to expect when he had followed Melia off the property, limp still just barely visible. And then there had been Annie and Mags. His heart had gone cold at the sight of Annie, and none of his usual tricks, none of his pleading had managed to get her to even focus on him. He was terrified of what had happened to trigger this. He'd found the card tucked inside her dress, and he'd wanted to cry too, because he didn't know what he was supposed to do or how he was supposed to fix this, especially when he couldn't get her to talk to him. Finally, they'd gotten permission to take her back to the train, and Finnick had carried her whole way. As soon as they'd gotten there though, Melia had quietly, but in her straightforward-way, told him that he hadn't been cleared to leave the Capitol.

He didn't fight, because he knew there was no point. Melia couldn't get him permission to leave, and nobody was going to give it to him. He'd gotten off the train, figuring the best thing he could do was let Mags take Annie home.

He spent the next two weeks agonizing over what was happening in Four any moment he had to himself. The rest of the two weeks he spent drunk and in bed.

It felt like years had passed by the time he got back on the train. Melia drugged him on the way home, something that happened all too frequently. When he woke up, all his bruises had been erased, although he could still feel them under the press of clear skin. She had at least dressed him in something that wouldn't look ridiculous in Four, although the fabric was too stiff and bright to really belong. It didn't matter.

He was off the train in an instant, heading toward Annie's house before even considering his own. Only to find that she wasn't home. He'd waited with her mother, uncomfortable the entire time, although he knew how to hide that. He couldn't sort what Annie's mother must think of him -- the boy who brought her daughter home, but also the whore she was now dating.

It was a stark relief when he finally heard Annie come inside. He got up hurriedly and lingered in the doorway, watching her move, watching the way she cleaned off the shells, arms poised, fingers careful. He just wanted to stand there and watch her forever. Nothing in the rest of the world mattered. But he knew they couldn't stay that way, because he needed to make sure she was okay, needed to know she had once again survived the bruising grip of the Capitol.

"You're all right?" he asked quietly, remaining near the entrance. He didn't know if he should touch her yet, felt as if all their previous rules had been erased by their time spent in the Capitol. He didn't know who he was yet, didn't know how she was yet. Didn't know if she wanted him anywhere near her.