[ 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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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?
no subject
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. ❱
no subject
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.
no subject
Question number two?
no subject
she is quiet for a moment too.] How bad is it? [ she means his aches, his hurt.] What did they do?
no subject
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...