❰ finnick was bound to find out. a good chunk of four's residents have spent the three days since the spectacle wondering at his reaction when he stepped off the train and caught wind of the news. they had no solid clue that she and finnick were close, but it's common knowledge that finnick busts his ass to make sure the rest of four can live as peacefully and painlessly as possible. here he was gone for an extra ten minutes before someone up and got herself lashed.
but they've never been to the capitol. they don't realize quite how fast information can travel, to those who rub elbows with the political elite.
he found out in the opulent living room of snow's own capitol manor. at first, he was sure he'd misheard. a well-groomed man with a literal maze of cornrowed hair ducked into the room just long enough to report to snow that the peacekeepers just made an example of a girl from four for causing unrest. they wouldn't have troubled the president with it, but the girl had leveled some fairly dire accusations against the accomodations they provide 'our dear finnick'.
that's when it clicked, and though his expression barely flickered, finnick felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a cart-mule. the man was dismissed shortly after, but finnick barely registered that he'd gone. it wasn't until snow addressed him directly that he regained his sense of place. something about the time, and the vehicle due to arrive outside any moment to deliver him to the gamemaker who extended him an invitation to dine. he answered on autopilot.
there's a silver lining to everything, though: in his preoccupation, he somehow forgot to dread.
he should have though. dreaded, i mean. the evening that snow had held him in the capitol to attend also turned out to be one that stretched many of the boundaries that snow had set into place as formalities, something to point to should complaints of inhumane treatment arise. though he hasn't eaten in nearly a day, finnick waits out the train ride home on his back on the floor of his quarters, contemplating another shower but not quite finding the kinetic energy to get up and take one. only halfway back does he remember what he's heard of caroline - there's no way that it wasn't caroline - and immediately feels a dim wave of guilt for forgetting in the first place.
still, when he steps off the train to an empty platform (his arrival was unannounced, after all), there's the briefest of moments when he considers just going home. the victor's loop is empty these days. nobody will bother him there. he'll be able to sleep this off - which is exactly what caroline should be doing, too. sleeping this off. but she isn't, is she? not without word from him.
he knows where she lives. he's not been inside, since finnick odair really has no business being there on a regular day, but he at least knows the house. small, but well-kept compared to many of the houses on this road. too many fishermen only set foot in their houses once every two or three days, and it shows worst in the houses this close to the market. finnick hopes to make it unseen. for once the cameras have left him be - likely because the footage would be unusable anyway, in his current state - but that doesn't protect him from being spotted making his way down the street.
the knock at her door goes unanswered. it's not unusual, a house in four is empty during the daylight hours more often than not, but he can't help the chill of unease that wraps around his spine. she wouldn't be out, not so soon after-... after what happened. maybe she's resting after all. maybe he should leave well-enough be. but the abrupt realization that 'made an example of' could have meant killed rather than given a lashing has him testing the knob - unlocked - and slipping inside. ❱
Caroline. ❰ he meant it to be a question as he lingers in the entry hall, but his throat's too hoarse and instead it's simply a name. belatedly, he tacks on: ❱ It's Finnick. ❰ as if she wouldn't recognize, hoarse or otherwise.
and he listens, for her to hopefully let him know where to find her. if she comes looking for him instead, she'll find him hovering in her entry hall in a damp sweatshirt and pants, bags under his eyes but managing to look more worried than drained. ❱
[ if caroline knew the further reacting implications of what she'd done, she wouldn't have ever done it in the first place. at least, she'd like to think so. she didn't know that finnick would be punished for her outburst, whether or not it was controlled or not.
her own punishment had been doled out harshly, perhaps not as bad as it could have been. she heard of men being lashed close to death. even as she laid on her stomach on the floor of her room, on a flimsy palate that was nothing like the comfortable mattress finnick had in his home, she didn't feel like she would die. not exactly. the ache was deep, bone deep. even with the salves (that her mother couldn't possibly afford) and the rounds of packed ice that reeked of dead fish, she could still feel it.
she'd just about managed to fall asleep, perhaps the first time she'd been able to do it since being whipped (other times it had been a matter of her losing conciousness), she heard a knock at the door. there was a reason it went unanswered. it took that amount of time for caroline to manage to stand, pulling herself up slowly, gasping and panting and biting back sounds.
when she heard the door, her heart began to race. no one good could be coming to her home in the middle of the work day. it was probably a peacemaker coming to drag her back to work. and she was determined to face them head on, not laying on her stomach on the floor.
but instead, a familiar voice rings out. it sounds different, odd, but she knows it. she bites back another sound of pain as she struggles to pull up her dress, she wears it backwards, the buttons left undone at her back. there's nothing she can do about it but she is suddenly determined to keep him from seeing it. ] One moment.
[ she dimly realizes how strangely detached and formal her response sounds. she shuffles so slowly to pull the blanket from her bed, slowly pulling it over her shoulders, biting back sounds of pain as she feels some wounds reopening and the rough fabric of the blanket brushing against her broken skin.
by the time she gets to him, she looks about ready to pass out, she is pale, sickly so. but when she sees him, her eyes widen.]
What happened to you? [ she moves forward faster than she should, arms outstretched for him before she lets out strangled sound and she's collapsing against door frame to grip for support.]
❰ in all technicality, he wasn't punished for her outburst. he was punished arbitrarily, at the mercy of a valuable political ally of the president who, quite frankly, could get away with pretty much anything they wanted. finnick has long since learned that while plenty seek the pleasure of his company in a literal sense, others still crave the rush of power they feel when they, ever so briefly, own a man who fought his way out of two separate battles to the death.
president snow doesn't tend to see the crucial difference between the two, and he books finnick's time rather indiscriminantly. this rendez-vous just happened to be scheduled for the day after finnick was set to go home, an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice, he's sure finnick understands.
to be fair, finnick absolutely understands. the politics behind it are painfully simple. that doesn't mean it isn't horseshit.
her response is... not great, but then again, neither was his greeting. it's enough of a reply to keep him lingering in the hall, patient or maybe just following orders by reflex anymore. in a moment of abrupt self-awareness, he realizes the latter's more true than he'd like, and the time between then and her appearance is spent on a silent attempt to snap himself out of it. pull himself together. she's just been brutalized. he owes her that much.
i guess part of him thought he looked better than he felt, or something like that, because her alarm at the sight of him catches him slightly off guard. nearly all of the damage is hidden under the sweatshirt, that's why they gave him one in the first place, but he guesses there's no hiding the shadows under his eyes, the slight slump in his usual confident stature.
all of which is entirely out of mind the instant she staggers, and he swears under his breath, closing the distance between them much faster than he's moved since he left the capitol in order to duck his head under her arm and sweep up her legs with one arm. ❱ Hey, hey- ❰ he's saying, a weak scolding or reassurance or whatever she needs in order to convince her not to try that again. now that he's lifting her up she'll have to hang on around his neck, he doesn't trust himself not to grip one wound or another if he tried to loop an arm around her back. but she's only airborne for a second either way, before he sinks down to his knees at her bedside and sets her down on what he assumes is her bed.
but he doesn't let her go completely. the arm that swept up her legs lifts to tug her into his chest in the best hug he can offer with his other arm hovering uselessly away from her torn-up back. ❱ I-, ❰ he breathes, and in the next breath: ❱ You shouldn't have, ❰ as if she doesn't already know that. they're just the only words he can find, at least so far. ❱
[ she hates that her feeble attempts to hide how bad off she is fails so miserable. the door frame barely has a chance to touch her hands before she's suddenly lifted off the ground with an seemingly effortless motion. finnick's strength, his fit physique is undoubtedly one of the reasons he's so sought after (she knows it's also his ability to make someone feel special, she's been on the receiving end of it long enough).
as he sets her down, he may notice a glimmer of something just beneath the sad excuse of a pillow she has. the bracelet he'd given her had been curled in her fingers as she laid there, her thumb sliding over the cool, smooth stones in an effort to feel anything but what she was feeling. she can't wear it out, such an extravagance would be noticed by everyone. she usually only wears it for him.
she pants softly because despite how gently he tried to lift her, it still sent searing pain through her. her eyes stay closed for a moment as he holds her still, as he tries to hug her, bending her body in a movement that is painful but she can barely feel it anymore, her face burying itself against his shoulder with a quiet sound that might be sob she hadn't been able to battle back any longer.]
I didn't mean to-- [ she murmurs softly, feeling ill that he knew but knowing there was no way he wouldn't.] I just... lost it. [i was worried about you. she sucks in a breath, reaching to pull the blanket off her shoulders, away from the slowly healing welts before she moves to try and sit up a bit, to keep him from seeing her back.
her hand trembles as it goes to his cheek to touch.] What happened? Did they hurt you?
❰ whether or not it's a sob, it reads as one and that's enough. his next inhale's too quick and his exhale is carefully level. he presses an urgent kiss to her head before tucking her in under his chin, belatedly protective, thumb stroking over her hair.
as important as it is to impress on her that they can't afford to 'just lose it', he doesn't scold her any further. honestly, he's still reeling in the fact that this managed to happen at all. things are supposed to be fine here, he's been so careful. showing up at her doorstep today was the most careless thing he's done in ages, and he would've managed not to do it if the cameras were rolling. so to her half-apology, he murmurs: ❱ I know, love. ❰ the word slips out unnoticed, an endearment for this gorgeous, reckless girl who somehow cares enough for him to bleed for it.
her fingers barely brush his cheek before he's snagged her hand in his free one, bringing hers to his lips to place a quiet kiss just below her knuckles. ❱ I know, ❰ he repeats, barely a breath against her fingers before pressing her hand back to his cheek where he found it.
her question slipped past him the first time she asked it, out in the hall a moment before she collapsed. this time, though, it's too direct not to answer. there's a moment's silence. then, plain and toneless: ❱ Yes. ❰ the truth, loathe as he is to give it, in hope that this unexpected confession's worth enough that she doesn't press for more.
because it's his turn now. ❱ Let me see it. ❰ he hasn't quite remembered to let go so she can oblige, but his tone - low and ever-so-slightly implosive - doesn't leave much room for negotiation. ❱
I'm sorry-- [ she mumbles softly as he moves to kiss her hand, her eyes opening to look at his face, the anguish on her face is mostly to do with the idea of putting him at risk and it only gets worse when he confirms that they hurt him. immediately tears well up in her eyes and she takes in a couple of uneven breaths, shaking her head in shame as she gasps out--] I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for...
[he has to know she didn't mean for anything she does to affect him, just like the opposite was true, that nothing he does is meant to blow back upon her or anyone in four, in fact, everything he does is to protect them.
her whole being aches to think that she's the reason he'd been hurt in anyway. but it only gets worse when he asks to see it, the result of her outburst. and she cannot deny him, no matter what tone his voice takes. she does hesitate, taking a moment longer to be in his arms and feel... safe. wincing, she pulls away slowly, shifting to turn enough that he can see her back, the back (but really the front) of her dress pulled apart to let air in, the buttons undone all the way to the small of her back.
she slowly pulls the top of her dress down her shoulders to further expose her back. it's not like he hasn't seen her naked before, but the situation is so, so different. they're bodies have tangled in the sheets, settled in a bath together. and yet, she feels incredibly uncomfortable baring herself to him so he can the angry, red stripes across her back, the color dulled by rudimentary salves and attempts at healing.
she tries for a lie--] It doesn't hurt as much as you think. I'm okay.
❰ he's seen her naked, sure, but he's asking her to expose something a lot more sensitive and personal - at least to finnick, whom a third of the capitol has seen naked at one point or another, but since the games very few have seen him bleed.
as she turns her back to him, his breathing stops, though the inches between them now might slip that fact past her notice. slowly and so much lighter than his embrace had been, his fingers slide under the unbuttoned neck of the "front" of her dress to lift it out away from her back while she slides the dress down over her shoulders, to keep it from sticking to her body's initial attempts to scab.
and there it is, laid out in front of him. his first thought in actual words is don't count them but by then he's already landed on fifteen. fifteen what? fifteen times that she's snuck into his house, thinking she wasn't seen? fifteen kisses mistakenly stolen too close to one of the windows? fifteen -
no. no, it's not-... it's just a number. it doesn't mean anything. they haven't been caught.
finnick blinks, finally letting out his breath a little more unevenly than he'd hoped. if he heard her false reassurance, he doesn't acknowledge it. ❱
This is-... ❰ he shakes his head a little, trying to kick his mind back into the present. into some sort of functionality. then his brow knits. ❱ These need better than this. The salve's okay for scrapes, accidents. Nothing this size. They're going to get infected. ❰ it's hard to tell if he's talking to her or thinking aloud.
either way, the next bit's definitely for caroline. ❱ Let me run to my house. I've got better - the real stuff. It might not even scar. ❰ oh, it'll scar. but the power of the capitol's medical technology still isn't to be underestimated. ❱
No, [ she breathes out, her voice strained in an attempt to mask her desperation for such a tonic or salve. ] I'm not letting you get hurt because of me again. [ if he was punished in the capitol because her outburst, she wouldn't let him go through that again by helping her.
there's no rules for the victors and how they use their spoils, there's no rules to prevent him from helping the people in his district. but that doesn't mean caroline doesn't fear someone finding out that he has a soft spot for her, that she can be used as leverage against him like annie had been used.
she sighs out a little brokenly, gritting her teeth against the pull of her skin as she turns to look at him,.] I earned these. I'll take the consequences. [ broken, scarred skin. ruined. she can't imagine he'd ever trace the length of her spine with his lips ever again. it's a ridiculous, irrational thought that crosses her mind as she closes her eyes and tries to cover herself up again (but failing miserably).]
Stop, ❰ he scolds her gently, snagging one of her hands with his before she can quite manage to pull her dress back on. ❱ I'm alone. For once. ❰ the last words are exhaled with the barest hint of a weak smile. ❱ Right now, I'd be a waste of footage.
❰ the point of which is to say: ❱ I'll make it there and back without anyone even realizing I'm back in Four. ❰ 'i will', not 'i could'. ...but then it clicks, the first thing she said, and his brow knits in a sudden objection as he reaches out to catch her chin with a finger, only the tiniest bit clumsy. ❱ Because of-... Caroline, look at me. They didn't hurt me because of you. That was going to happen even if you'd never set a toe out of line.
[ he scolds her to stop trying to re-dress and she does, if only because her attempts are futile and honestly, they are painful. he reassures her that he's alone, that the cameras are not on him today, right now. skepticism creeps into her mind but before she can say as much, his finger urges her chin up so she'll look at him.
he says it wasn't her fault but she isn't sure she believes him. her own brow furrows as she looks at him, tears still welled in her eyes.] You don't need to say that. Why else would they hurt you? [ why when he does everything they make him do? why else would they do it other than the fact there'd been a tiny moment of unrest in district four? ]
❰ he exhales a quick dark breath of laughter, because there's really no other way to say this. ❱ It was... recreational. ❰ not a punishment. if it were, they would've told him. ❱ This might come a shock, but that's exactly how some people prefer to spend an evening.
❰ he's not sure if that makes it better or worse. it depends on which happens to be stronger, her guilt or her sympathy.
finnick releases her chin to swipe the back of his index finger across the moisture under one of her eyes, then he drops his forehead momentarily to yours. ❱ Trust me, we'll talk when I get back.
❰ and unless she objects too terribly, he's making to stand up stiffly out of his crouch. ❱
[ it takes a moment for it to sink in, if only because she didn't know anything of that world, she is naive to it and well, she's also exhausted. but as the dots connect, she looks at him in horror then absolute sympathy. she wants to hold him, she wants to take care of him instead of the other way around.
but she can't. and it's a miserable and helpless feeling. ] Finnick-- [ she chokes out a little, his forehead pressing to hers, her hand lifting to stroke his cheek, well aware that tiny bit of tenderness couldn't even come close to undoing the brutality done to him, whatever it had been.
he moves to stand before she can say anything else, as he promises they'll talk when he gets back.] Please... be careful.
❰ her request just gets a nod, then he's gone, peeking briefly out a front window before he slips out the door.
the trip takes longer than it should have. partly because he avoids any foot traffic. partly because, inspired by a sudden wave of lightheadedness, he spends a solid ten minutes sitting on the floor of his bathroom, eyes closed and head resting back against the large clawfoot tub as he adamantly pulls his shit together. caroline's a mess. he needs to not be a mess. it's as simple as that. he can deal with his own issues once he gets home tonight - because as loathe as he is to leave her alone after what happened, he can't stay the night with her. she doesn't live alone like he does.
at some arbitrary point in that process he decides he was together enough to deal with this properly, and hauls himself to his feet, snagging a moderate-sized tin (way too ornate to contain a depletable item, but that's the capitol's way) from the medicine cabinet as well as some proper gauze and bandages. and then he's back out the door, only pausing long enough to lock it behind him.
finnick's steps are quick as he jogs stealthily back toward her house. he knows he wasted too much time. it's not as if her wounds are getting any worse, but by now she might be starting to worry - and on top of that, every minute he delays is a minute closer to the end of the work day, the point at which he'll have to vacate or at least pretend they've barely met. the latter of which might be difficult, considering the trouble he has in letting go of her.
this time he doesn't knock, ducking inside and making tracks for the bedroom. ❱ I'm sorry, ❰ he's saying as he steps into view, moving to drop to his knees at her bedside again. his voice, at least, sounds a bit less hoarse. he has the presence of mind to suck down most of a glass of water while he was home, between more important tasks.
he lets the small bag of supplies drop lightly to rest on the floor. ❱ I was held up, nothing bad. I'm here now. ❰ and he scoots forward a couple of inches so that his knees rest on the edge of her mattress. his brief turbulent attempt at meditation had at least some of the desired effect, because weary as he still is, his tone's quite a bit lighter than it was before he left. ❱ And I know you don't want me touching it, so I'm ready to make you the following deal. ❰ both the faint curl of his lips and the spark in his eye echo back to the plethora of times that he's gotten it in his head to sass at her. ❱ You let me clean that up with the Capitol salve and my utmost affection, and you can ask me anything for as long as it takes me to finish. ❰ that's super cheap, she can ask him anything either way, but at least this way it sounds like a good deal. ❱
[ in all honesty, caroline doesn't count the minutes until his return. not because she doesn't want him there, comforting her. but because as soon as he leaves, she moves to lay back down on her stomach and close her eyes. however long it takes for him to get back to her, is the same amount of time she takes to doze a little, only because her body demands it and she feels even more weary now that the adrenaline of dread that come with him seeing her like this and finding out he'd been hurt has made her crash.
she dozes lightly, stirring when she hears the door open and slide shut, the bottom of it worn and the wood splintering. her eyes open as she watches him return to her side, kneeling on the floor and setting aside a bag containing the supplies he'll need. she doesn't bother asking how he knows which to use, he knows because of his life.]
It's alright, [ she murmurs, shifting some as he goes on to try and make a deal with her. ] Okay, [ she says with as much good humor as she can muster, smiling softly but knowing the questions she wants answered are not things he'll want to discuss. and it's hard to think of pushing away his lighter mood. she prefers that playful curl to his lips more than any sight in the world.] It's a deal.
[ she moves then, to carefully slide her arms out of the dress. there's no reason for modesty when he's worshipped just about every inch of her skin with his lips. she struggles a little and undoubtedly will help her pull the garment down before she moves to lay back down, tucking her arms beneath the pillow her head lays on, fingers sliding over the bracelet he'd give her. ]
Tell me the most ridiculous body modification you saw. [ she's starting off easy.]
❰ if he can help it, finnick plans to keep at least most of his good humor no matter what she ends up asking. it helps, he thinks. at least, it always has in the past.
wordlessly, he reaches to help her finish undressing, his touch gentle and polite. there have been more than a few occasions in which he's seen fit to be much less of a gentleman with her, but this is absolutely not one of those times. his fingertips wrap around the widest part of her hips, but only to steady her, to keep her from twisting too sharply by mistake as she moves to lie on her stomach. then he's up on the bed beside her to survey the damage from an (admittedly amateur) medical perspective rather than from the perspective of the responsible party. it largely blurred together, before. one big mess that he hadn't been here to prevent. now, each gash separates before his eyes to let him pick out the worst of the damage.
he leans down to place a kiss below her hairline and well above the wounds. an apology for what's coming, maybe. then: ❱
You've heard of Ramsey Gunbrill? He was a gamemaker under Seneca Crane, managed not to get himself sacked when Plutarch took over. ❰ since 'heard of' was probably a pretty loose term here. ❱ Not many people realize he's got a son. Gaviner, he has to be eighteen now but when I met him a couple of years back, he'd decided he was a Career. ❰ the story sounds the faintest bit distracted, but finnick can multitask just fine. she'll hear a liquidy sloshing as he fishes a bottle out of his bag, much less fancy than the tin with the salve. it's antiseptic, he made off with it to nurse some wounds on the train ride home a few months back but the rest has sat largely unused.
finnick should warn her that this will sting, but they're doing this thing where they try not to baby one another, so instead he continues the story. ❱ Gaviner trained five nights a week. Taught himself to use a knife, an axe, a spear - if you could find it in the Arena, he picked it up. ❰ a bit of the antiseptic's poured on the rag, and he starts to dab at the first gash with a faint cringe that he masks with a laugh-breath. ❱ I can't even begin to explain how lucky he is that no one from the Capitol sets foot in the Arena. The kid was terrible. Honestly, I'd bet on him killing himself by mistake before any Tribute could touch him. ❰ he's trying to be gentle, honest, but the entire point of the antiseptic is to dab away the layer of salve and whatever else that covers her back already. his balm's useless if he just slathers it on top of all that. ❱ He was thorough though, I'll give him that. The last time I saw him, he put my back to a wall with a knife he pulled from under the skin of his arm. Apparently, he had nine others just like it. On his arms, legs, back... ❰ his tone dries out just briefly as he adds: ❱ It's our little secret. ❰ then his jaw sets, but mostly because he's wiping at one of the worse areas now. ❱
[ the kiss is a tenderness she'll need to cling to in the coming moments. but finnick is good, he's quite skilled at distracting her for a few moments, even managing to keep the tension out of her shoulders as she hears him preparing his supplies.
she speaks of ramsey and she remembers the name, vaguely. but his son is obviously unknown to her and the story sounds utterly ridiculous. why would anyone pretend to be a career? oh, right, someone who would never actually have to face the horrors of the arena or know anyone personally who would or has.
of course, that question dies out when finnick touches one of the gashes for the first time, her body tensing immediately as she turns her head and bites back a cry of pain. she tries, struggles to even out her breathing. her eyes clench shut and her jaw trembles but she remains quiet, letting Finnick talk.
She even musters up the will, the courage, the energy to ask a question but it dies quickly in her throat when his treatment moves over the worst of it, the center of her back, the cross section of several of the gashes. her fingers grip the bracelet tighter and she whimpers softly, unable to help it.] That's... [ she pushes words out of her mouth in her attempt to stay engaged and brave.] ridiculous and dangerous. Did he... [ she pants softly.] want you to train him?
❰ it's a tribute to his capitol-induced self-restraint that he manages to keep his story going as if she isn't shuddering miserably under his fingertips or whimpering in her stubborn attempt not to make any louder sound. he hates this, truly. hates making her feel like this, and hates the necessity of it in the first place. he's only narrowly convinced himself not to ask her which of them did it, because some shred of logic reminds him that there's nothing he could do to them either way.
finnick doesn't expect her to speak again. when she does, a faint pride flickers in his chest. all at once he feels the urge to lean down and kiss her again, to tell her how brave and lovely she is, and it's all he can do to keep dabbing dutifully at the wounds. ❱
Actually, he wouldn't hear of it. I never offered, but he made sure it was known that since I'd be mentor to two of his opponents, I positively was not his ally. ❰ the kid was a piece of work. didn't he realize that forming alliances kept you alive? maybe he planned to ally with one and two and that was that. ...as if he'd ever have the chance. ❱
[ the pain is nothing compared to how it felt recieving them but that doesn't make this any easier, her knuckles turn white and it takes all she has not to bite her bottom lip right through.
a few tears finally manage to slip down her cheeks as he keeps going, keeps talking. she wishes that she could grip his hand for strength. but he needs both of them to get this done quickly and effectively. the skin around her wounds turns an angrier shade of red, her eyes stay shut.]
As if he didn't-- [ she lets out a tiny sound of discomfort.] already seem like a buffoon.
❰ to that, finnick offers a quiet hum of agreement, briefly focused. the good news is, he's working quickly (old habits die hard) and the cleaning process at least is a little over halfway done. he makes his way over another criss-crossed lashing in silence, then: ❱
[ there's a silence that falls between them and any of the small amount of good humor that his story had brought forth dissipates. she sucks in a sharp breath but cannot help the way she whimpers when his fingers work at the worst of her back. she'll thank him later but for now, it hurts too much.
she is quiet for a moment too.] How bad is it? [ she means his aches, his hurt.] What did they do?
❰ between her whimper and the question that follows, finnick kicks himself for going quiet at all. they'd had a rapport, she'd been... at least mildly distracted, and that was something at least.
now there's nothing but her pain and her worry about his.
one of those questions is much easier than the other, for certain. his tongue rubs thoughtlessly at his top teeth for a second while he finds the words. ❱ It's not awful. ❰ what a cop-out. he knows she won't let that fly. ❱ Bunch of little stuff, really. It just... adds up, wears on you. I'll sleep it off. ❰ 'little stuff' from the perspective of a guy who's been stabbed and practically boiled alive by acid fog and god knows what else, so who knows how far that assessment will get him.
that wasn't her entire question, though. and while half of him wants to crack some kind of half-joke to lighten the mood, he knows she'd read it like a brush-off and he can't quite bring himself to do it. ❱
Most of them don't realize what Snow's doing, ❰ he starts. it's quieter now, but still level enough. ❱ The same people who pay Snow for my company think that I'm in this by choice. Like we've made some kind of deal, Snow and I, mutually beneficial. They have to - it's the only way they can feel okay about it. ❰ nobody wants to believe they're a terrible person. they'll believe whatever it takes in order to feel like they aren't, even something as unfeasible as the possibility that finnick could sincerely enjoy being pawned like currency.
but... ❱ It's worse when they do, though. When they know the truth of it. Gamemakers, mostly, or relatives of. They know he's got something over my head, Annie or my father or anyone else in Four. They know my hands are tied. The others aren't so bad, really. They admire me, respect me even. They talk to me like I could walk out the door anytime I choose. The Gamemakers know better.
❰ they're not so careful. so polite. so respectful or admiring, even. ❱
[ caroline is well aware that for most people, whatever finnick has gone through in the capitol on his last trip may well be the worst thing they'd ever been through but finnick was a tribute, he faced some of the worst things in the world and all when he was just a boy.
she listens, holding her breath for fear she might miss something as blood pounds in her ears from both the agony of her own pain and of thought of his.
it's clear that when he goes on, whoever did... this to him, was part of that latter section of people. her eyes open to look at him, her breath uneven and shaky.] Finnick... [ she says his name mournfully, her hand moving from under the pillow, uncurling as the bracelet slips on her arm by default and she reaches out to touch his side, no matter how much it hurts her to do it.
she wants to ask what they did, she wants to ask who and why. she knows that men have dark delights and desires, she's not naive, she's heard things, like everyone has about the excesses of the capitol. even in their district, there are men who behave... abhorrently. ]
How can I fix it?
finally have time to tag things!! o/ will provide visuals in pp to make up for delay
❰ her fingers only reach his side for a second before he lets out a sharp exhale of disapproval and catches her wrist in a light grip to move it back down to the mattress near her head. she needs to hold still until he's got the good goop in her wounds, else she's just irritating them even worse. as if to make sure it doesn't read like rejection, his fingers slide from her newly-released wrist up her arm to her shoulder, just barely heavy enough not to tickle.
'how can i fix it?' ❱ You can sit still, firstly. Let me play at 'doctor' for a few more minutes. ❰ and the humor rings true enough, in a muted sort of way. he's coping alright, he'll be okay. no need to worry about him with such immediacy. there'll be time for that once he's done, if she absolutely insists.
now that he's finishing up at the base of her spine, the rag's cast aside in favor pulling something else out of his bag - something that opens with a sound that's faintly metallic, but too smooth to be any sort of metal their district deals in. then the lid's set on the mattress beside her, and he dips his fingers into the container to scoop from the surface a layer of balm. ❱
Starts off hot, ❰ he warns her, leaning in to briefly assess where to start on the balm's application. that's how this works, on a sensory level. for finnick it's just room-temperature gunk on his fingers, but that's what happens when it's applied to unbroken skin. when applied to a wound, it starts off feeling hot, almost burning - that's when it patches up the worst of the wound - then it cools off, not unlike tea tree, to soothe while the wound enters slowly into the other three-fourths of the healing process.
she'll feel that now, like he's smearing hot wax from one end of her uppermost wound to the other, but before he's reached the far end it's already starting to cool. ❱
These scars will be more impressive than mine. I can't say I'm not jealous. ❰ one more slow swipe of his balm-covered fingers, one more medicated gash. and since he's on a bit of a roll here: ❱ You'll have to carry an oar just to beat the men away. They won't admit it, but they love a girl who's trouble.
[ she's going to insist. caroline is nurturing by nature, she wants to take care of finnick and she'll want to do so once she's able. right now, doing anything beyond laying here feels impossible so she agrees when he insists that she holds still while he continues to work to repair her broken body.] Oh, alright, [ she tries to tease back, as if she's been put out but the words sound a little flat.
a few more tears manage to slip down her cheeks as he gets the last of it at the base of her spine. and she's silent as he gets the balm ready, there's no cheeky comments or retorts left in her at the moment. she feels exhausted, the pain has worn her down and the exhilaration of having him near her, seeing that he was alive only lasted for a few minutes.
he warns her and it still takes her by surprise. she takes in a sharp breath. it would feel incredible if the balm was anywhere but being spread over wounded skin. it burns for a moment and she clenches her eyes shut, works her jaw tight. her fingers curl a little until he starts to talk and it seems just as he does, the heat fades into strange tingling chill.
maybe it's her exhaustion, maybe it's just the fact that she feels as though she has nothing left to lose or maybe it's just that she needs to know--]
Do you? [ love a girl who's trouble? or was she not worth the grief any more? she couldn't blame him if he thought that. she retreats mere seconds later, which is unlike her but doesn't want to... she doesn't know what it would mean if she made him answer that.] Like a girl who's trouble? [ it takes effort to speak, to get things out coherently but she tries.] Because I'm... not sure anyone would agree with you about the scars.
1000 years later, a crappy tag while i get back in the swing of him
❰ there isn't a part of finnick that doesn't ache, between his body's residual protest against his last day or so in the capitol and the even more pressing array of bittersweet emotions burrowing hard into the hollow of his gut. he's never been more proud of or scared for this stupidly brave woman sprawled before him, and it feels like a mixing of waters both scalding and freezing coursing through his veins. it's too much. she's too much.
and then comes the question, utterly loaded but finnick finds that he's not so upset about that. careful fingers swipe balm across the remainder of one more gash before any reply comes. ❱ I'm not sure that's the word I used. ❰ it's a little bit slower, the teasing note lingering but quieted now in favor of something more genuine. 'like' - he hadn't said 'like'.
and that correction may very well be an answer in and of itself. ❱
[ it's not the words. exactly. but in that moment, it feels like enough. a less exhausted, less wounded version of herself would battle him for a straight answer but she'd only battle with a less exhausted, less wounded version himself as well. for now, it works as another sort of balm on her heart.
she hopes that's how he means it. she can only do that now, hope. she lets her eyes close for a moment as she swallows thickly.]
No, it's not. [ the word he used and she smiles through the pain and aches. her jaw sets a little longer before she speaks again.] It's starting to feel better...
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pardon me while i set up a million miles of context
but they've never been to the capitol. they don't realize quite how fast information can travel, to those who rub elbows with the political elite.
he found out in the opulent living room of snow's own capitol manor. at first, he was sure he'd misheard. a well-groomed man with a literal maze of cornrowed hair ducked into the room just long enough to report to snow that the peacekeepers just made an example of a girl from four for causing unrest. they wouldn't have troubled the president with it, but the girl had leveled some fairly dire accusations against the accomodations they provide 'our dear finnick'.
that's when it clicked, and though his expression barely flickered, finnick felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a cart-mule. the man was dismissed shortly after, but finnick barely registered that he'd gone. it wasn't until snow addressed him directly that he regained his sense of place. something about the time, and the vehicle due to arrive outside any moment to deliver him to the gamemaker who extended him an invitation to dine. he answered on autopilot.
there's a silver lining to everything, though: in his preoccupation, he somehow forgot to dread.
he should have though. dreaded, i mean. the evening that snow had held him in the capitol to attend also turned out to be one that stretched many of the boundaries that snow had set into place as formalities, something to point to should complaints of inhumane treatment arise. though he hasn't eaten in nearly a day, finnick waits out the train ride home on his back on the floor of his quarters, contemplating another shower but not quite finding the kinetic energy to get up and take one. only halfway back does he remember what he's heard of caroline - there's no way that it wasn't caroline - and immediately feels a dim wave of guilt for forgetting in the first place.
still, when he steps off the train to an empty platform (his arrival was unannounced, after all), there's the briefest of moments when he considers just going home. the victor's loop is empty these days. nobody will bother him there. he'll be able to sleep this off - which is exactly what caroline should be doing, too. sleeping this off. but she isn't, is she? not without word from him.
he knows where she lives. he's not been inside, since finnick odair really has no business being there on a regular day, but he at least knows the house. small, but well-kept compared to many of the houses on this road. too many fishermen only set foot in their houses once every two or three days, and it shows worst in the houses this close to the market. finnick hopes to make it unseen. for once the cameras have left him be - likely because the footage would be unusable anyway, in his current state - but that doesn't protect him from being spotted making his way down the street.
the knock at her door goes unanswered. it's not unusual, a house in four is empty during the daylight hours more often than not, but he can't help the chill of unease that wraps around his spine. she wouldn't be out, not so soon after-... after what happened. maybe she's resting after all. maybe he should leave well-enough be. but the abrupt realization that 'made an example of' could have meant killed rather than given a lashing has him testing the knob - unlocked - and slipping inside. ❱
Caroline. ❰ he meant it to be a question as he lingers in the entry hall, but his throat's too hoarse and instead it's simply a name. belatedly, he tacks on: ❱ It's Finnick. ❰ as if she wouldn't recognize, hoarse or otherwise.
and he listens, for her to hopefully let him know where to find her. if she comes looking for him instead, she'll find him hovering in her entry hall in a damp sweatshirt and pants, bags under his eyes but managing to look more worried than drained. ❱
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her own punishment had been doled out harshly, perhaps not as bad as it could have been. she heard of men being lashed close to death. even as she laid on her stomach on the floor of her room, on a flimsy palate that was nothing like the comfortable mattress finnick had in his home, she didn't feel like she would die. not exactly. the ache was deep, bone deep. even with the salves (that her mother couldn't possibly afford) and the rounds of packed ice that reeked of dead fish, she could still feel it.
she'd just about managed to fall asleep, perhaps the first time she'd been able to do it since being whipped (other times it had been a matter of her losing conciousness), she heard a knock at the door. there was a reason it went unanswered. it took that amount of time for caroline to manage to stand, pulling herself up slowly, gasping and panting and biting back sounds.
when she heard the door, her heart began to race. no one good could be coming to her home in the middle of the work day. it was probably a peacemaker coming to drag her back to work. and she was determined to face them head on, not laying on her stomach on the floor.
but instead, a familiar voice rings out. it sounds different, odd, but she knows it. she bites back another sound of pain as she struggles to pull up her dress, she wears it backwards, the buttons left undone at her back. there's nothing she can do about it but she is suddenly determined to keep him from seeing it. ] One moment.
[ she dimly realizes how strangely detached and formal her response sounds. she shuffles so slowly to pull the blanket from her bed, slowly pulling it over her shoulders, biting back sounds of pain as she feels some wounds reopening and the rough fabric of the blanket brushing against her broken skin.
by the time she gets to him, she looks about ready to pass out, she is pale, sickly so. but when she sees him, her eyes widen.]
What happened to you? [ she moves forward faster than she should, arms outstretched for him before she lets out strangled sound and she's collapsing against door frame to grip for support.]
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president snow doesn't tend to see the crucial difference between the two, and he books finnick's time rather indiscriminantly. this rendez-vous just happened to be scheduled for the day after finnick was set to go home, an unfortunate but necessary sacrifice, he's sure finnick understands.
to be fair, finnick absolutely understands. the politics behind it are painfully simple. that doesn't mean it isn't horseshit.
her response is... not great, but then again, neither was his greeting. it's enough of a reply to keep him lingering in the hall, patient or maybe just following orders by reflex anymore. in a moment of abrupt self-awareness, he realizes the latter's more true than he'd like, and the time between then and her appearance is spent on a silent attempt to snap himself out of it. pull himself together. she's just been brutalized. he owes her that much.
i guess part of him thought he looked better than he felt, or something like that, because her alarm at the sight of him catches him slightly off guard. nearly all of the damage is hidden under the sweatshirt, that's why they gave him one in the first place, but he guesses there's no hiding the shadows under his eyes, the slight slump in his usual confident stature.
all of which is entirely out of mind the instant she staggers, and he swears under his breath, closing the distance between them much faster than he's moved since he left the capitol in order to duck his head under her arm and sweep up her legs with one arm. ❱ Hey, hey- ❰ he's saying, a weak scolding or reassurance or whatever she needs in order to convince her not to try that again. now that he's lifting her up she'll have to hang on around his neck, he doesn't trust himself not to grip one wound or another if he tried to loop an arm around her back. but she's only airborne for a second either way, before he sinks down to his knees at her bedside and sets her down on what he assumes is her bed.
but he doesn't let her go completely. the arm that swept up her legs lifts to tug her into his chest in the best hug he can offer with his other arm hovering uselessly away from her torn-up back. ❱ I-, ❰ he breathes, and in the next breath: ❱ You shouldn't have, ❰ as if she doesn't already know that. they're just the only words he can find, at least so far. ❱
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as he sets her down, he may notice a glimmer of something just beneath the sad excuse of a pillow she has. the bracelet he'd given her had been curled in her fingers as she laid there, her thumb sliding over the cool, smooth stones in an effort to feel anything but what she was feeling. she can't wear it out, such an extravagance would be noticed by everyone. she usually only wears it for him.
she pants softly because despite how gently he tried to lift her, it still sent searing pain through her. her eyes stay closed for a moment as he holds her still, as he tries to hug her, bending her body in a movement that is painful but she can barely feel it anymore, her face burying itself against his shoulder with a quiet sound that might be sob she hadn't been able to battle back any longer.]
I didn't mean to-- [ she murmurs softly, feeling ill that he knew but knowing there was no way he wouldn't.] I just... lost it. [i was worried about you. she sucks in a breath, reaching to pull the blanket off her shoulders, away from the slowly healing welts before she moves to try and sit up a bit, to keep him from seeing her back.
her hand trembles as it goes to his cheek to touch.] What happened? Did they hurt you?
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as important as it is to impress on her that they can't afford to 'just lose it', he doesn't scold her any further. honestly, he's still reeling in the fact that this managed to happen at all. things are supposed to be fine here, he's been so careful. showing up at her doorstep today was the most careless thing he's done in ages, and he would've managed not to do it if the cameras were rolling. so to her half-apology, he murmurs: ❱ I know, love. ❰ the word slips out unnoticed, an endearment for this gorgeous, reckless girl who somehow cares enough for him to bleed for it.
her fingers barely brush his cheek before he's snagged her hand in his free one, bringing hers to his lips to place a quiet kiss just below her knuckles. ❱ I know, ❰ he repeats, barely a breath against her fingers before pressing her hand back to his cheek where he found it.
her question slipped past him the first time she asked it, out in the hall a moment before she collapsed. this time, though, it's too direct not to answer. there's a moment's silence. then, plain and toneless: ❱ Yes. ❰ the truth, loathe as he is to give it, in hope that this unexpected confession's worth enough that she doesn't press for more.
because it's his turn now. ❱ Let me see it. ❰ he hasn't quite remembered to let go so she can oblige, but his tone - low and ever-so-slightly implosive - doesn't leave much room for negotiation. ❱
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[he has to know she didn't mean for anything she does to affect him, just like the opposite was true, that nothing he does is meant to blow back upon her or anyone in four, in fact, everything he does is to protect them.
her whole being aches to think that she's the reason he'd been hurt in anyway. but it only gets worse when he asks to see it, the result of her outburst. and she cannot deny him, no matter what tone his voice takes. she does hesitate, taking a moment longer to be in his arms and feel... safe. wincing, she pulls away slowly, shifting to turn enough that he can see her back, the back (but really the front) of her dress pulled apart to let air in, the buttons undone all the way to the small of her back.
she slowly pulls the top of her dress down her shoulders to further expose her back. it's not like he hasn't seen her naked before, but the situation is so, so different. they're bodies have tangled in the sheets, settled in a bath together. and yet, she feels incredibly uncomfortable baring herself to him so he can the angry, red stripes across her back, the color dulled by rudimentary salves and attempts at healing.
she tries for a lie--] It doesn't hurt as much as you think. I'm okay.
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as she turns her back to him, his breathing stops, though the inches between them now might slip that fact past her notice. slowly and so much lighter than his embrace had been, his fingers slide under the unbuttoned neck of the "front" of her dress to lift it out away from her back while she slides the dress down over her shoulders, to keep it from sticking to her body's initial attempts to scab.
and there it is, laid out in front of him. his first thought in actual words is don't count them but by then he's already landed on fifteen. fifteen what? fifteen times that she's snuck into his house, thinking she wasn't seen? fifteen kisses mistakenly stolen too close to one of the windows? fifteen -
no. no, it's not-... it's just a number. it doesn't mean anything. they haven't been caught.
finnick blinks, finally letting out his breath a little more unevenly than he'd hoped. if he heard her false reassurance, he doesn't acknowledge it. ❱
This is-... ❰ he shakes his head a little, trying to kick his mind back into the present. into some sort of functionality. then his brow knits. ❱ These need better than this. The salve's okay for scrapes, accidents. Nothing this size. They're going to get infected. ❰ it's hard to tell if he's talking to her or thinking aloud.
either way, the next bit's definitely for caroline. ❱ Let me run to my house. I've got better - the real stuff. It might not even scar. ❰ oh, it'll scar. but the power of the capitol's medical technology still isn't to be underestimated. ❱
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there's no rules for the victors and how they use their spoils, there's no rules to prevent him from helping the people in his district. but that doesn't mean caroline doesn't fear someone finding out that he has a soft spot for her, that she can be used as leverage against him like annie had been used.
she sighs out a little brokenly, gritting her teeth against the pull of her skin as she turns to look at him,.] I earned these. I'll take the consequences. [ broken, scarred skin. ruined. she can't imagine he'd ever trace the length of her spine with his lips ever again. it's a ridiculous, irrational thought that crosses her mind as she closes her eyes and tries to cover herself up again (but failing miserably).]
I'm not putting you at risk again.
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❰ the point of which is to say: ❱ I'll make it there and back without anyone even realizing I'm back in Four. ❰ 'i will', not 'i could'. ...but then it clicks, the first thing she said, and his brow knits in a sudden objection as he reaches out to catch her chin with a finger, only the tiniest bit clumsy. ❱ Because of-... Caroline, look at me. They didn't hurt me because of you. That was going to happen even if you'd never set a toe out of line.
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he says it wasn't her fault but she isn't sure she believes him. her own brow furrows as she looks at him, tears still welled in her eyes.] You don't need to say that. Why else would they hurt you? [ why when he does everything they make him do? why else would they do it other than the fact there'd been a tiny moment of unrest in district four? ]
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❰ he's not sure if that makes it better or worse. it depends on which happens to be stronger, her guilt or her sympathy.
finnick releases her chin to swipe the back of his index finger across the moisture under one of her eyes, then he drops his forehead momentarily to yours. ❱ Trust me, we'll talk when I get back.
❰ and unless she objects too terribly, he's making to stand up stiffly out of his crouch. ❱
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but she can't. and it's a miserable and helpless feeling. ] Finnick-- [ she chokes out a little, his forehead pressing to hers, her hand lifting to stroke his cheek, well aware that tiny bit of tenderness couldn't even come close to undoing the brutality done to him, whatever it had been.
he moves to stand before she can say anything else, as he promises they'll talk when he gets back.] Please... be careful.
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the trip takes longer than it should have. partly because he avoids any foot traffic. partly because, inspired by a sudden wave of lightheadedness, he spends a solid ten minutes sitting on the floor of his bathroom, eyes closed and head resting back against the large clawfoot tub as he adamantly pulls his shit together. caroline's a mess. he needs to not be a mess. it's as simple as that. he can deal with his own issues once he gets home tonight - because as loathe as he is to leave her alone after what happened, he can't stay the night with her. she doesn't live alone like he does.
at some arbitrary point in that process he decides he was together enough to deal with this properly, and hauls himself to his feet, snagging a moderate-sized tin (way too ornate to contain a depletable item, but that's the capitol's way) from the medicine cabinet as well as some proper gauze and bandages. and then he's back out the door, only pausing long enough to lock it behind him.
finnick's steps are quick as he jogs stealthily back toward her house. he knows he wasted too much time. it's not as if her wounds are getting any worse, but by now she might be starting to worry - and on top of that, every minute he delays is a minute closer to the end of the work day, the point at which he'll have to vacate or at least pretend they've barely met. the latter of which might be difficult, considering the trouble he has in letting go of her.
this time he doesn't knock, ducking inside and making tracks for the bedroom. ❱ I'm sorry, ❰ he's saying as he steps into view, moving to drop to his knees at her bedside again. his voice, at least, sounds a bit less hoarse. he has the presence of mind to suck down most of a glass of water while he was home, between more important tasks.
he lets the small bag of supplies drop lightly to rest on the floor. ❱ I was held up, nothing bad. I'm here now. ❰ and he scoots forward a couple of inches so that his knees rest on the edge of her mattress. his brief turbulent attempt at meditation had at least some of the desired effect, because weary as he still is, his tone's quite a bit lighter than it was before he left. ❱ And I know you don't want me touching it, so I'm ready to make you the following deal. ❰ both the faint curl of his lips and the spark in his eye echo back to the plethora of times that he's gotten it in his head to sass at her. ❱ You let me clean that up with the Capitol salve and my utmost affection, and you can ask me anything for as long as it takes me to finish. ❰ that's super cheap, she can ask him anything either way, but at least this way it sounds like a good deal. ❱
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she dozes lightly, stirring when she hears the door open and slide shut, the bottom of it worn and the wood splintering. her eyes open as she watches him return to her side, kneeling on the floor and setting aside a bag containing the supplies he'll need. she doesn't bother asking how he knows which to use, he knows because of his life.]
It's alright, [ she murmurs, shifting some as he goes on to try and make a deal with her. ] Okay, [ she says with as much good humor as she can muster, smiling softly but knowing the questions she wants answered are not things he'll want to discuss. and it's hard to think of pushing away his lighter mood. she prefers that playful curl to his lips more than any sight in the world.] It's a deal.
[ she moves then, to carefully slide her arms out of the dress. there's no reason for modesty when he's worshipped just about every inch of her skin with his lips. she struggles a little and undoubtedly will help her pull the garment down before she moves to lay back down, tucking her arms beneath the pillow her head lays on, fingers sliding over the bracelet he'd give her. ]
Tell me the most ridiculous body modification you saw. [ she's starting off easy.]
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wordlessly, he reaches to help her finish undressing, his touch gentle and polite. there have been more than a few occasions in which he's seen fit to be much less of a gentleman with her, but this is absolutely not one of those times. his fingertips wrap around the widest part of her hips, but only to steady her, to keep her from twisting too sharply by mistake as she moves to lie on her stomach. then he's up on the bed beside her to survey the damage from an (admittedly amateur) medical perspective rather than from the perspective of the responsible party. it largely blurred together, before. one big mess that he hadn't been here to prevent. now, each gash separates before his eyes to let him pick out the worst of the damage.
he leans down to place a kiss below her hairline and well above the wounds. an apology for what's coming, maybe. then: ❱
You've heard of Ramsey Gunbrill? He was a gamemaker under Seneca Crane, managed not to get himself sacked when Plutarch took over. ❰ since 'heard of' was probably a pretty loose term here. ❱ Not many people realize he's got a son. Gaviner, he has to be eighteen now but when I met him a couple of years back, he'd decided he was a Career. ❰ the story sounds the faintest bit distracted, but finnick can multitask just fine. she'll hear a liquidy sloshing as he fishes a bottle out of his bag, much less fancy than the tin with the salve. it's antiseptic, he made off with it to nurse some wounds on the train ride home a few months back but the rest has sat largely unused.
finnick should warn her that this will sting, but they're doing this thing where they try not to baby one another, so instead he continues the story. ❱ Gaviner trained five nights a week. Taught himself to use a knife, an axe, a spear - if you could find it in the Arena, he picked it up. ❰ a bit of the antiseptic's poured on the rag, and he starts to dab at the first gash with a faint cringe that he masks with a laugh-breath. ❱ I can't even begin to explain how lucky he is that no one from the Capitol sets foot in the Arena. The kid was terrible. Honestly, I'd bet on him killing himself by mistake before any Tribute could touch him. ❰ he's trying to be gentle, honest, but the entire point of the antiseptic is to dab away the layer of salve and whatever else that covers her back already. his balm's useless if he just slathers it on top of all that. ❱ He was thorough though, I'll give him that. The last time I saw him, he put my back to a wall with a knife he pulled from under the skin of his arm. Apparently, he had nine others just like it. On his arms, legs, back... ❰ his tone dries out just briefly as he adds: ❱ It's our little secret. ❰ then his jaw sets, but mostly because he's wiping at one of the worse areas now. ❱
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she speaks of ramsey and she remembers the name, vaguely. but his son is obviously unknown to her and the story sounds utterly ridiculous. why would anyone pretend to be a career? oh, right, someone who would never actually have to face the horrors of the arena or know anyone personally who would or has.
of course, that question dies out when finnick touches one of the gashes for the first time, her body tensing immediately as she turns her head and bites back a cry of pain. she tries, struggles to even out her breathing. her eyes clench shut and her jaw trembles but she remains quiet, letting Finnick talk.
She even musters up the will, the courage, the energy to ask a question but it dies quickly in her throat when his treatment moves over the worst of it, the center of her back, the cross section of several of the gashes. her fingers grip the bracelet tighter and she whimpers softly, unable to help it.] That's... [ she pushes words out of her mouth in her attempt to stay engaged and brave.] ridiculous and dangerous. Did he... [ she pants softly.] want you to train him?
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finnick doesn't expect her to speak again. when she does, a faint pride flickers in his chest. all at once he feels the urge to lean down and kiss her again, to tell her how brave and lovely she is, and it's all he can do to keep dabbing dutifully at the wounds. ❱
Actually, he wouldn't hear of it. I never offered, but he made sure it was known that since I'd be mentor to two of his opponents, I positively was not his ally. ❰ the kid was a piece of work. didn't he realize that forming alliances kept you alive? maybe he planned to ally with one and two and that was that. ...as if he'd ever have the chance. ❱
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a few tears finally manage to slip down her cheeks as he keeps going, keeps talking. she wishes that she could grip his hand for strength. but he needs both of them to get this done quickly and effectively. the skin around her wounds turns an angrier shade of red, her eyes stay shut.]
As if he didn't-- [ she lets out a tiny sound of discomfort.] already seem like a buffoon.
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Question number two?
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she is quiet for a moment too.] How bad is it? [ she means his aches, his hurt.] What did they do?
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now there's nothing but her pain and her worry about his.
one of those questions is much easier than the other, for certain. his tongue rubs thoughtlessly at his top teeth for a second while he finds the words. ❱ It's not awful. ❰ what a cop-out. he knows she won't let that fly. ❱ Bunch of little stuff, really. It just... adds up, wears on you. I'll sleep it off. ❰ 'little stuff' from the perspective of a guy who's been stabbed and practically boiled alive by acid fog and god knows what else, so who knows how far that assessment will get him.
that wasn't her entire question, though. and while half of him wants to crack some kind of half-joke to lighten the mood, he knows she'd read it like a brush-off and he can't quite bring himself to do it. ❱
Most of them don't realize what Snow's doing, ❰ he starts. it's quieter now, but still level enough. ❱ The same people who pay Snow for my company think that I'm in this by choice. Like we've made some kind of deal, Snow and I, mutually beneficial. They have to - it's the only way they can feel okay about it. ❰ nobody wants to believe they're a terrible person. they'll believe whatever it takes in order to feel like they aren't, even something as unfeasible as the possibility that finnick could sincerely enjoy being pawned like currency.
but... ❱ It's worse when they do, though. When they know the truth of it. Gamemakers, mostly, or relatives of. They know he's got something over my head, Annie or my father or anyone else in Four. They know my hands are tied. The others aren't so bad, really. They admire me, respect me even. They talk to me like I could walk out the door anytime I choose. The Gamemakers know better.
❰ they're not so careful. so polite. so respectful or admiring, even. ❱
no subject
she listens, holding her breath for fear she might miss something as blood pounds in her ears from both the agony of her own pain and of thought of his.
it's clear that when he goes on, whoever did... this to him, was part of that latter section of people. her eyes open to look at him, her breath uneven and shaky.] Finnick... [ she says his name mournfully, her hand moving from under the pillow, uncurling as the bracelet slips on her arm by default and she reaches out to touch his side, no matter how much it hurts her to do it.
she wants to ask what they did, she wants to ask who and why. she knows that men have dark delights and desires, she's not naive, she's heard things, like everyone has about the excesses of the capitol. even in their district, there are men who behave... abhorrently. ]
How can I fix it?
finally have time to tag things!! o/ will provide visuals in pp to make up for delay
'how can i fix it?' ❱ You can sit still, firstly. Let me play at 'doctor' for a few more minutes. ❰ and the humor rings true enough, in a muted sort of way. he's coping alright, he'll be okay. no need to worry about him with such immediacy. there'll be time for that once he's done, if she absolutely insists.
now that he's finishing up at the base of her spine, the rag's cast aside in favor pulling something else out of his bag - something that opens with a sound that's faintly metallic, but too smooth to be any sort of metal their district deals in. then the lid's set on the mattress beside her, and he dips his fingers into the container to scoop from the surface a layer of balm. ❱
Starts off hot, ❰ he warns her, leaning in to briefly assess where to start on the balm's application. that's how this works, on a sensory level. for finnick it's just room-temperature gunk on his fingers, but that's what happens when it's applied to unbroken skin. when applied to a wound, it starts off feeling hot, almost burning - that's when it patches up the worst of the wound - then it cools off, not unlike tea tree, to soothe while the wound enters slowly into the other three-fourths of the healing process.
she'll feel that now, like he's smearing hot wax from one end of her uppermost wound to the other, but before he's reached the far end it's already starting to cool. ❱
These scars will be more impressive than mine. I can't say I'm not jealous. ❰ one more slow swipe of his balm-covered fingers, one more medicated gash. and since he's on a bit of a roll here: ❱ You'll have to carry an oar just to beat the men away. They won't admit it, but they love a girl who's trouble.
<3333
a few more tears manage to slip down her cheeks as he gets the last of it at the base of her spine. and she's silent as he gets the balm ready, there's no cheeky comments or retorts left in her at the moment. she feels exhausted, the pain has worn her down and the exhilaration of having him near her, seeing that he was alive only lasted for a few minutes.
he warns her and it still takes her by surprise. she takes in a sharp breath. it would feel incredible if the balm was anywhere but being spread over wounded skin. it burns for a moment and she clenches her eyes shut, works her jaw tight. her fingers curl a little until he starts to talk and it seems just as he does, the heat fades into strange tingling chill.
maybe it's her exhaustion, maybe it's just the fact that she feels as though she has nothing left to lose or maybe it's just that she needs to know--]
Do you? [ love a girl who's trouble? or was she not worth the grief any more? she couldn't blame him if he thought that. she retreats mere seconds later, which is unlike her but doesn't want to... she doesn't know what it would mean if she made him answer that.] Like a girl who's trouble? [ it takes effort to speak, to get things out coherently but she tries.] Because I'm... not sure anyone would agree with you about the scars.
1000 years later, a crappy tag while i get back in the swing of him
and then comes the question, utterly loaded but finnick finds that he's not so upset about that. careful fingers swipe balm across the remainder of one more gash before any reply comes. ❱ I'm not sure that's the word I used. ❰ it's a little bit slower, the teasing note lingering but quieted now in favor of something more genuine. 'like' - he hadn't said 'like'.
and that correction may very well be an answer in and of itself. ❱
<333
she hopes that's how he means it. she can only do that now, hope. she lets her eyes close for a moment as she swallows thickly.]
No, it's not. [ the word he used and she smiles through the pain and aches. her jaw sets a little longer before she speaks again.] It's starting to feel better...