Hunger Games fic: Treading Water (15/30?), PG-15
Title: Treading Water (Part II - The Capitol)
Chapter Title: Long Way Home
Rating: (this chapter) PG-15
Word count: 7,583
Betas: mrsdrjackson and pinkfinity (all mistakes and missteps are my own)
Focus: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta, Coriolanus Snow, Haymitch Abernathy, Chaff, Cinna, Portia
Summary: “It’s called Oblivion,” he tells her. “It’ll make you forget, at least for a little while.”
Warnings: drug use, foul language
Author's note: Posted a day early because OMG THE MOVIE OPENS IN JUST OVER 24 HOURS!!!!! *ahem* The title of this chapter is from "Keep Drivin'" by Katherine McPhee, which is on the fic soundtrack that you can download here.
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Chapter Fifteen - Long Way Home
Finnick feels it when the nightmares begin. Annie becomes rigid in his arms for just a moment and then relaxes, but not completely, her muscles still twitching in her arms, her legs. She presses her head into the pillow and a breath of sound escapes her lips. He tightens his arms around her, but rather than settling her, as it usually does, she stiffens, whips her head backward, nearly clipping his chin. She says clearly, “No,” and it doesn’t stop as she pushes against him, the words just fall into a broken pattern: no, can’t touch, no, no, didn’t teach.
Teach? “Annie, baby, it’s a dream.”
“No, no, no…”
She wouldn’t tell him what happened beyond saying Snow touched her, confirmed by Martin. Martin also told him that Snow spoke to her, but she denied it, insisted in her quiet way that he’d said nothing. And then, after a time of alternating between retreating inside herself to a place Finnick couldn’t follow and dragging herself back to him, Annie asked him to make her forget, which he did, with his mouth and his hands and his body. She slept afterward, but lightly, the slightest sound, the slightest movement on his part pulling her back to wakefulness, only to drift off again moments later.
“Not fair…”
“What’s not fair, Annie?” He keeps his voice low and soft. She needs the sleep, so he doesn’t want to wake her if he doesn’t have to, if he can redirect the nightmare into something less troubling.
“Used,” she murmurs. He pulls his arm out from under her, props himself up on his elbow and reaches out to smooth her hair from her face and suddenly she’s fighting to escape whatever has her in her nightmare, limbs thrashing with increasing violence. “No!” Before he can either catch her arms or back away, she connects with his cheek, bone to bone, he isn’t sure if it’s her elbow or her fist. Before she can truly hurt either herself or him, Finnick rolls over her, pins her wrists above her head, traps her legs under his.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Annie, wake up.” She fights him, struggles to buck him off. He keeps his voice steady, calm, completely at odds with the turmoil inside him. Snow did this to her. “Annie.”
She goes still beneath him and he looks down at her face, sees her eyes glistening with tears in the moonlight that filters in through the window. She licks her lips and blinks away the tears, opens her mouth to say something, but then stops, closes her eyes and turns her face away from him.
“Annie, please.”
“I’m okay, Finnick. It was just a nightmare,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” He rolls off her and pulls her back into his arms. She weaves the fingers of her right hand with his left. “What were you dreaming of? It wasn’t your Games.”
Her fingers still. “Nothing. It was just a dream.”
“Don’t lie to me, Annie.” Even as he says the words, he feels her body relaxing back into sleep. “Don’t shut me out.” He kisses her hair, breathes, “I wish I could keep you safe.” But safety is such a relative thing, he has always known that, hinging on a bargain made with a malicious and spiteful man.
He and Annie had been together for maybe a year, keeping it secret save from his family and the other residents of Victors’ Island, when Snow called him into his office. He’d been in the Capitol for a couple of weeks with no sign of anything wrong. He had an appointment later that evening to attend an awards ceremony with a woman Snow had already told him had to be kept happy no matter what. Snow left him waiting for nearly twenty minutes, standing in front of the desk while the president took care of paperwork and then a phone call before circling his desk to stand in front of Finnick.
“I hear rumors that you have a girlfriend,” Snow finally said. He held a rose bud in one hand, not one of the ones he always wore, but red. He sniffed at it and then reached a finger under Finnick’s lapel, pinned the delicate bud there, a drop of blood caught on the dark fabric.
Forcing his voice to a steadiness he didn’t feel, Finnick responded, “Is that why I’m here? Because you heard a rumor?” He knows he knows he knows…
Snow sat on the corner of his desk and studied Finnick for a moment. “You’re seeing Annie Cresta,” he states. “My understanding is that she has moved in with you.”
Finnick stiffened his knees to keep them from buckling. “How…?”
“How doesn’t matter.” Snow smiled at him, a slow stretch of lips. “Congratulations, Finnick. Do you plan to marry? Because I’m sure, given how popular you are with our citizens, we could give you two quite a beautiful wedding.”
“We…” Finnick swallowed, his voice failing him. He tried again. “We don’t have any plans to marry.”
“Pity. I’m sure your Annie would make a lovely bride. I’m pleased that she has recovered from her… difficulties following her victory. I had no idea.” Of course you didn’t, Finnick thought. It was far better for Annie if everyone believed she was crazy. Finnick had fostered that impression ever since her victory tour; sometimes it was even true. Snow looked down at his hands, picked at something beneath one of his fingernails before looking back up at Finnick. “Bring her with you when you return for the upcoming Games,” he ordered, his voice full of his displeasure. “I’m sure the Capitol will love her as much as you do.”
A state of near panic settled in. “Please.”
“Please?” Snow cocked his head to one side and watched Finnick. “’Please’ what?”
“Please leave her alone.”
Snow raised one brow. “How old are you now, my boy?” he asked.
Finnick frowned at the non sequitur. “How old am I? Twenty-one.”
Snow nodded, a look of speculation, of calculation in his flat blue eyes. He studied Finnick for a minute or two longer before saying at last, “All right, Finnick. Your Annie may remain in District Four on one condition.”
“Anything.”
“You haven’t heard my condition.”
“I don’t care. I’ll do anything you want, just please, leave her alone.” He knew even as he said it that Snow would take advantage of it. He wasn’t disappointed.
“In addition to your own duties, you will fulfill those that would have been hers as well.” The President smiled again. “Or at least their equivalent.”
Finnick closed his eyes, clenched his hands into fists. The scent of the rose in his lapel drifted up into his nostrils, suffocating him. He opened his eyes. “Give me your word.”
Snow stood, walked over to Finnick, placed his hands on Finnick’s shoulders. Finnick towered over him, but they both knew who held all the power. “You have my word, Finnick. For as long as you perform for both of you, your Annie may remain snug at home.” His hands slid down Finnick’s arms, his fingers digging in above Finnick’s elbows with almost bruising force.
Tingling in his fingers brings Finnick back to the present. Annie is a warm and, at least for the moment, peaceful weight in his arms. He carefully pulls his dead arm out from under her and shifts backward in the bed, slides out from under the covers. He pauses to make sure Annie doesn’t stir, shaking his arm to get rid of the pins and needles before he heads into the bathroom.
He’s only gone for a couple of minutes when her shriek shatters the silence. He slams back through the door to the bedroom to find her sitting straight up in the bed, eyes wide, screaming a name, and he isn’t sure if it’s his or her district partner’s from five years before.
“Annie, I’m here.” He all but launches himself onto the bed. “Baby, I’m here. I’m here.” He pulls her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you.”
“There was so much blood.” Her words are muffled against his chest. The arena then. The boy who volunteered when Annie volunteered, who followed her into the arena. She shakes and her hands move restlessly where they’re trapped between them. Finnick glances at the clock: 12:03. He hasn’t slept at all and the sleep Annie managed hasn’t done her any good. “It was Erik and then it was you.”
“I’m right here, Annie. I’m not dead.”
“So much blood…” She pulls back from him. Again, there are tears in her eyes, her face is wet with them. “Make it stop.”
“Annie…”
“Make it go away.” She pushes her face into his chest again. “Hurts…”
He can’t stand it. He knows what she’s going through even if he doesn’t know exactly what Snow said to trigger it. Holding her in his arms, feeling her tremble, he makes a decision. He pulls away from her. At her sound of protest he promises, “I’ll be right back,” and heads into the bathroom again. Opening the cabinet over the sink, he pulls the contents off the lower shelf and pushes at the back until it slides to the left, revealing the space behind it and the bottle of pills he keeps there for emergencies.
He shakes out a small, translucent blue pill, rolling it between his thumb and index finger, and contemplates putting it back in the bottle. He stares at the pill for a few seconds, but he can’t get Annie’s screams out of his head. Finally he slips the bottle back into its hiding place and puts everything back the way it was, fills a glass with water, and returns to the bedroom, sits beside her on the bed.
She takes the pill from him and stares at it in the moonlight. “It’s called Oblivion,” he tells her. “It’ll make you forget, at least for a little while.” She looks from the pill between her fingers to Finnick, a question in her eyes. “It temporarily blocks memories,” he tells her. “Sometimes it delays the formation of new ones while you’re under it. Once it wears off, everything comes back, but it’s like the memories are old. They’re there, but there’s a distance to them.”
“How long…?”
“It varies from person to person. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, usually.”
She meets his eyes. “It sounds dangerous.”
He nods. “It can be. It’s addictive and it’s highly illegal. It was developed to help psych patients cope with trauma, but it sells on the streets as much for the side effects as for blocking memories.”
“You’ve used it?”
“Yes.” He looks away from her, not wanting her to see reflected in his eyes any part of the things he tried so hard to distance himself from. “It won’t make you truly forget, Annie, but it’ll make you not care for a while.”
She reaches up to stroke a finger down his jaw line, making him look at her again. “How many times?”
“The girl who gave them to me warned me not to take them too close together.” He shrugs. “She gave me a half dozen or so and said if I took them all in a matter of days, I’d be done for, addicted. That was three years ago and I still have three left. Two if you decide you want this one.” In response, she reaches for the glass of water, delicately takes the pill into her mouth and washes it down with half of the water. “It acts pretty quickly,” he warns her.
“Will it make me sleep?” she asks, snuggling against him again.
“No, but it’ll keep the nightmares at bay so you can stay asleep.”
“So tell me about those side effects the Capitolites want….” She traces patterns onto his chest, kisses his neck and collarbone. He laughs when the patterns start to drift lower, down his stomach.
“Heightened libido, reduced inhibitions,” he says, catching her wayward hand even as her fingers still and her breathing begins to even out. She’s so exhausted that neither of those particular side effects will come into play, at least not for a while. She seems to grow heavier in his arms as she drifts toward sleep again. He lays her back on the bed and stands, pulling the blanket over her.
“I don’t care about all the others, Finnick,” she murmurs, her voice blurry, “you’re mine.”
He bends down to kiss her forehead. “I am yours, Annie. Always have been, always will be.” He has no intention of lingering on just how short “always” might be for them. He stands there for a while, just watching her sleep. This time there won’t be any nightmares to wake her. She’ll sleep for hours, unlike him.
Finnick pulls on his underwear, then throws on a shirt and jeans and slips barefoot from the room. The floor outside their bedroom is lit only by dim nightlights, there to prevent Training Center guests from tripping over anything in the middle of the night. He hits the button to call the elevator and when it comes, he presses the button for the lobby.
It’s after hours, so no one is there to see it - not directly, anyway, although he’s sure the cameras will pick it up - when he steals a bottle of liquor from behind the bar. The end farthest from the door is where the grain-based alcohol is kept, but it’s dark and he doesn’t know exactly what he grabs beyond the fact that the bottle is full and unopened. It doesn’t matter what it is. His only plan is to go up to the roof and drink himself to oblivion, because he can afford the hangover in the morning better than he can the effects of the Oblivion he gave Annie. The last thing he needs is to blurt out something about rebellion or to do something their Mockingjay will find unforgiveable.
When he reaches the roof, he finds Haymitch and Chaff already there. Haymitch, sitting with his back against the low wall that backs the garden area, waves him in and gestures to the empty bottle beside the unconscious Chaff, sprawled in front of Haymitch. “You’re just in time, Odair. Bastard drank the last of my hooch.”
Finnick slides down beside Haymitch and twists the top from the bottle, takes a swig and hands it to the older man. “That’s exactly why I’m here, Haymitch, to supply you with more booze.”
Haymitch pats Finnick on one upraised knee and grins at him. “Good man.” He passes the bottle back to Finnick.
“What’s up with him?” Finnick kicks lightly at Chaff’s shoulder. “Training wasn’t that tough.”
“Just hit him it’s his last week on this earth and he has to spend it with you losers. ‘s enough to drive anyone to drink.”
“Truer words…” Finnick drinks and then hands the bottle back to Haymitch.
“Why’re you here, boy?”
“Can’t sleep.” He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, listens to the chimes tinkling in the light breeze. “Annie had a bad night. Really bad. Screaming bad.” Haymitch knocks the bottle against Finnick’s knee; Finnick closes his fingers around the neck of it when Haymitch presses it into his hand. “She never screams, Haymitch.” He drinks.
“Fucking Snow,” Haymitch says and takes the bottle from Finnick. “Why the hell are you here instead of with her?”
“She’s asleep.”
Haymitch snorts. “I doubt that’ll last long.”
“I gave her something to help.” Finnick can feel Haymitch staring at him in the dark.
“What’d you give her?”
He considers lying; Haymitch never understood using drugs to cope, which is all kinds of ironic. “Oblivion,” he tells him.
“You stupid son of a bitch. What the fuck were you thinking? Oblivion? That shit is as addictive as it gets.” Haymitch’s anger, directed at Finnick, is a little surprising.
“One hit isn’t going to addict her and I was thinking that I could make the pain go away for a little while.”
“Fucking idiot.” Haymitch downs a good quarter of the bottle. “I bet you fucked her, too, didn’t you?” he mutters.
Finnick’s vision whites out, flaring then fading in time with the roar of blood in his ears. For a moment he feels like he’s going to be sick and he isn’t sure if it’s from the rush of adrenaline or at the implication that he used Annie, took advantage of her in her weakened state, and at the fact that it came from one of his oldest, closest friends.
There’s a sound from the vicinity of his feet, movement, then Chaff says, “Haymitch.”
“Aw fuck. Finnick, I’m sorry.” Haymitch’s voice is rough.
“That’s okay.” Finnick’s voice is much steadier than it has any right to be. “I guess I’m a fool for thinking we were friends.” He pounds the back of his head against the wall. “This place poisons everything.” When he closes his eyes, he sees another night almost eight years ago, drinking with these two men as they helped put him back together after Snow had done his best to break him into pieces.
“Damn it, Finnick. We are friends, you stupid bastard. I didn’t mean-”
“Yes you did, or you wouldn’t have said it.”
“I was drunk. I am drunk.”
“When are you not drunk?”
Chaff pushes himself to a sitting position, looks at the two men leaning side by side against the low wall. He reaches for the bottle in Haymitch’s hand. “You’re right about one thing, Finnick: This place is poison.” He drinks and passes the bottle back to Haymitch. “’Course the boy fucked her, Haymitch. They’re young, they’re pretty, and they’re practically married. And you…” He hits Finnick’s knee with a fist. “You know damn well ‘mitch here talks a whole bunch of shit he don’t mean when he’s well and truly drunk. So both of you, get over it.” With that he stands a bit unsteadily, catches himself on the railing that extends above the low wall, and then lurches toward the elevator. “I’m for bed.”
Haymitch waves the bottle at him. Finnick wishes him a good night. After a time, Haymitch bumps into Finnick’s shoulder to gain his attention and then hands him the bottle. They drink in silence, Haymitch lost in his own thoughts as Finnick replays in his mind everything he said and did since Martin told him about Annie and Snow. In spite of Haymitch’s reaction, he can’t say he’d change anything.
“What I gave her is a hell of a lot safer for her than that rotgut you live on,” he tells Haymitch. The knowledge swims before him of how crucial Haymitch’s Katniss is to their hoped-for rebellion and how she’s being deliberately kept in the dark. “At least I didn’t feed her something she knew nothing about and hope for the best.”
“Son of a bitch.” Haymitch takes another drink. He says nothing else, just sits there beside Finnick holding the bottle. Finally he drinks again and hands the bottle to Finnick once more. “It’s too dangerous to tell her.”
Finnick rolls his head along the wall to look at Haymitch. “It’s too dangerous to not.”
“Shit.” Haymitch rubs his face with both hands and then levers himself to his feet, wobbling a bit before grabbing onto the railing.
“You need help getting back, old man?” Finnick asks, making no effort to get up.
“Nah,” Haymitch says, following it with a belch of epic proportions. “I’ve got this.” He lets go of the railing and starts to walk toward the elevator, but his balance is off and he ends up shuffling nearer to the wall.
Finnick takes another swig as he watches; there’s not much left in the bottle, so he finishes it and rolls to his feet, too, not sure if he’s going to get another bottle or head back to bed and try to sleep. Haymitch is still about as far from the elevator now as he was a few minutes ago, still next to the low wall when he trips and heads right for the railing, barely catching himself. Finnick rushes over to him and grabs him by the arm, pulling him away from the wall and the railing and the force field as Haymitch laughs.
“Wouldn’t that be something? Live twenty-five years with the consequences of using their damned force field only to have it puke me back up when I trip into it.”
“Yeah, Haymitch, that’d be something.” He slings Haymitch’s arm over his shoulder.
Waiting for the elevator, Haymitch looks over at him and says, “I’ll take care of her, Finnick.”
“Like you did this afternoon?”
A sharp intake of breath, then, “That’s not fair and you know it.”
Finnick drops his voice, makes it gravelly, rough, and says, “Welcome to your life, kid. Fair don’t enter into it.”
“Shit.”
xXx
Annie wakes to silence. She opens her eyes and turns her head on the pillow, reaches out to her left, but Finnick isn’t there. Silence and solitude. She stretches, wincing at the tightness in her shoulders and neck, and sits up to a room filled with midday sunlight filtering in through the window, where the curtains are open wide. A glance at the clock and the emptiness in her stomach confirm that it’s nearly lunchtime.
And then it hits her: this isn’t her home. Nothing in the room is familiar, not the furniture, not the bedclothes, not the artwork on the walls, not the view of what looks like an apartment building outside the only window. Tendrils of fear start to worm their way into her consciousness.
The last thing Annie remembers is a moving train. There was the awful reaping before that, but nothing after. My head… She touches her forehead, but there’s no sign of any injury there. Instead, her muscles ache, especially her neck and shoulders. She’s not wearing any clothes and there’s a different kind of ache between her legs. Panic starts to set in and she folds herself into a ball on the bed, her hands over her head, but then she quashes the panic before it can truly take hold, pushes herself upright again. Think, Annie. The train was headed to the Capitol for the Hunger Games. So this must be the Capitol.
She forces herself to look around the room more closely, to pay attention to the details. She’s not in the middle of the bed, but rather on the same side she sleeps on at home and there’s an indentation in the pillow beside hers; both things tell her that she shared the bed with someone else. She picks up the pillow beside her and holds it to her face and it smells like home. It smells like Finnick. She breathes a little easier. There are little bits and pieces around the room that belong to him, too. Okay, so this is his room in the Training Center.
Draped over the footboard of the bed is a shirt and jeans that she doesn’t recognize, but that look like something she would wear. Might have worn? How long have I been here? A thought scratches at the back of her brain, a flash of something that might be a memory, an answer to her question, but it’s gone before she can catch it.
She stares for a time at the alien view from the window, trying to chase down anything between the train and now, but only succeeds in causing herself a headache. She flings the covers away in frustration and swings her legs over the side of the bed. “I need a shower,” she announces aloud then stands, walks over to the dresser and without thinking about it, opens a drawer and pulls out underwear, opens another and pulls out a short-sleeved shirt. She takes those and the jeans from the end of the bed into the bathroom before it hits her that she knew exactly where the clothes were.
A flash of close-cropped brown hair and laughing green eyes above a stack of clothing. “Mags sent them.” Annie blinks and it’s gone, but not before she puts a name to the face. “Martin Perch,” she says to her reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowns. Beside the tangle-haired girl in the mirror is a piece of paper. Reaching out, she pulls it from the glass, leaving behind a spot of what appears to be liquid soap. She recognizes Finnick’s sprawling handwriting.
Annie, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you woke. I had to go to training (2nd day - UGH). You’re in the Capitol in the Training Center, you’re supposed to be my mentor for the Games, and there’s a reason you can’t remember anything from the last couple days. I’ll answer any questions you have when I see you tonight, but if you’re feeling up to it, you can join Martin in the Headquarters building (across the courtyard). Or you could go up to the TC roof. I remember you used to like the gardens up there. They’ve changed a little since you were here last, much nicer. For one thing, NO ROSES. Lots
There’s an arrow at the bottom, indicating there’s more on the back, so Annie turns the page over. The middle of the top two lines are a little blurry from the soap, but still legible.
of windchimes and suncatchers. If you get hungry, you can order something up - just use the microphone thing by the bedroom door. Or you can go down to the lobby. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Mags is threatening me with her cane. I love you. Finnick
P.S. The note was in here instead of the bedroom because I didn’t think you’d see it in there. I hope I didn’t worry you too much. F
P.P.S. This time if anyone accuses me of breaking the mentor/tribute rules, it’s actually true. F
Crap! PPPS. If you do leave the suite, be careful.
She laughs. His writing is larger and messier as it goes on, the second post script huge and loopy until the final post script is nothing more than a cramped scribble as he ran out of room. She pictures Mags poking at him with her cane as he writes and she grins, lays the note down on the counter by her clothes, and steps into the shower. Apparently, no one expects her anywhere, so she can take as long a shower as she’d like.
Finnick’s note allayed most of her fears, although she definitely wants an explanation for the huge gap in her memory of the last few days. She doesn’t really want to eat alone in the room or in the lobby with all the people that are sure to be there, but if the courtyard isn’t too crowded, the thought of listening to the fountain while she eats is nice. It’s not the ocean, but it is water and she’s good at pretending.
Once showered, Annie quickly dresses and calls up the elevator. When it arrives, she punches the button for the lobby and then turns around to watch her descent. An enormous television screen above the bar shows a shifting scene of what looks like people in the districts setting up public viewing platforms for the Games. The lobby is just as crowded as she thought it would be, all the tables and all the spaces at the bar filled, which doesn’t bode well for the courtyard. Annie decides between the crowd and the “entertainment,” she’ll go back to the fourth floor and order something there, take it up to the roof to eat.
The doors open and she reaches out to press the button for her floor when a voice stops her. “Annie?” A man in simple black and green stops in front of the elevator. There’s a woman with him who looks somewhat more typical of the Capitol’s citizens, maybe a couple of years older than her companion, carrying something in a metal case. Instead of closing the doors on them, Annie steps through and lets them close behind her. The man smiles at her and says, “You look so much better than the last time I saw you. How are you?”
“Do I know you?” she asks, frowning. She’s not sure why she got off the elevator instead of riding it back up, but there’s something familiar about the man. She’s fairly sure she’s never seen the woman before.
His smile fades. “Annie, I’m Cinna. We met the day before yesterday.” He glances at his companion who watches the interplay with curiosity. “You don’t remember?”
Annie studies his face, stopping at his gold-lined, gold-flecked green eyes. A kind smile. A damp scrap of blue and purple cloth. Gentle fingers on her chin. Soothing hands at her forehead. She blinks. “Cinna. Yes, I…” Blinks again. “On the train.” Meeting Cinna is definitely something she’s going to ask Finnick about.
“Yes,” Cinna confirms cautiously. “We met on the train.”
Frowning, Annie says, “You’re the stylist for District Twelve.” That much comes to her easily, but she doesn’t remember anything about meeting him beyond his eyes, his smile, and him wiping away the blood with that blue and purple… “Scarf. It was a scarf.” At the look on his face, she says, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so confusing. I had a head injury and…” She shrugs. She doesn’t know what else could have caused the enormous hole in her memory, although Finnick’s note implied that there is something.
Cinna seems to accept that, looking relieved. He gestures toward his companion. “Annie, this is Portia, my styling partner. Portia, this is Annie Cresta of District Four.” Portia holds out a hand and after a brief hesitation, Annie shakes it. Neither of them seems to notice the delay. “Annie, Portia and I were going out for lunch. Would you like to join us?”
“Please do, Annie,” Portia adds to his invitation. “Cinna told me he watched the opening ceremonies with you. He has some beautiful sketches of you to prove it.” Oh, really?
Portia seems friendly enough and, like Cinna, she doesn’t have that accent Annie associates with the Capitol. Looking from Portia’s friendly smile to Cinna’s cautious concern, Annie asks, “Is there someplace that isn’t so crowded?”
“It is a little loud in here, isn’t it?” Cinna observes. “Portia? Harriman’s?”
“That would be perfect!” She turns to Annie. “I have an interview I have to go to at 2:00,” she gives her metal case a little shake and Annie realizes it must be some kind of portfolio, “but Harriman’s is just around the block from where I have to be.”
“An interview?” Annie asks.
“Portia has a shot at becoming the personal stylist for Regina Blalok,” Cinna tells her.
Annie looks back and forth between them. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.” Portia looks skeptical, but Cinna just laughs.
“There’s no reason you should, Annie. She’s a big deal here in the Capitol, but I doubt you’ve heard of her in the districts.” He gestures toward the lobby and the double doors on the other side. “Shall we?”
Portia moves ahead of Annie and Cinna and turns to walk backwards. “Regina Blalok is a singer, Annie. She’s becoming more and more popular every day. I hear she even had a brief fling with your district’s Finnick Odair a few months back.”
Neither of them seems to notice Annie’s silence as they step through the glass doors and into the midday sunshine. Cinna leans in closer to Annie and whispers loudly, “She’ll be old news by this time next year.” He glances at Portia to judge her reaction and Annie gets the impression it’s a running joke between them.
Stepping from the shade of the buildings and into the direct light of the sun hurts Annie’s eyes and makes her skin itch. Cinna slips a pair of sunglasses over his own eyes. The air temperature is hot, although not nearly as hot as it would be back home. Portia, still walking backward, is telling Cinna why he’s wrong about Regina’s staying power and they’re both laughing when a white-uniformed Peacekeeper stops Annie with a hand on her shoulder.
“Where are you going, Miss Cresta?” she asks as another Peacekeeper stops beside her. Neither of them appears to be armed, but even so, Annie’s heart beats a little faster.
Annie steps back far enough that the woman would have to follow her to keep her hand on Annie’s arm. “We’re going for lunch.”
“I’ll have to check-”
A frisson of fear slithers down Annie’s spine as she remembers the Peacekeepers who came to Finnick’s parents’ home to take him back to the Capitol. “Check on what?” she interrupts. “Am I a prisoner?” Cinna and Portia are no longer smiling.
“Is there a problem, officer?” Cinna asks, moving a little closer to Annie, but Portia takes it a step further.
“Oh, this is ridiculous. Annie is a victor, not a tribute. She’s going to lunch with us and that’s that.” She takes Annie by the hand and starts toward the street.
“Portia…” Cinna starts but she doesn’t let him finish.
“I have been a stylist for these Games for six years, Cinna. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Mentors and visiting victors can come and go as they please.” She keeps walking, dragging Annie along with her. Annie glances over her shoulder and sees Cinna shrug as he says something to the Peacekeepers, who don’t seem to know quite what to do, before hurrying to catch up with Annie and Portia.
“You can slow down now, Portia,” he says when he draws close. “Annie did have a rather nasty concussion just a couple of days ago.”
Portia stops. “Oh, Annie, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Annie looks from the contrite Portia to the amused Cinna and a laugh bubbles up from inside. It feels like people have been asking her that question for days. “It’s okay, Portia. They fixed it in the Remake Center.” After she says it, she realizes that it’s true. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but when it was over, Annie was no longer in pain.
Taking a deep breath, Portia leads Annie and Cinna down the street at a more sedate pace. “I wonder what that was all about?” Portia says when they have to stop at a corner to wait for traffic. She looks over at Annie and points across the street and halfway up the next block. “Harriman’s is right there, Annie. Do you see the red canopy? Not too far from the Games complex.”
Not nearly far enough, Annie thinks as the traffic stops, allowing them to cross. They walk in silence the short distance to the restaurant, weaving between other pedestrians. The part of the city block Harriman’s faces is in a zone marked no cars or other motorized vehicles allowed, which allows their seating, along with that of a couple of neighboring restaurants, to spill out into the pedestrian area.
“The Training Center staff seem a little jumpy this year,” Cinna observes as he snags a table for three under a large shade tree a little way into the no vehicle zone where it’s less crowded. “And I don’t recall there being quite so many Peacekeepers for the last Games.” Annie sees a pair of them walking through the pedestrian zone, but they don’t seem to be paying any particular attention to anyone or anything, just patrolling.
Portia looks thoughtful. “Do you suppose it’s because of the Quarter Quell?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, though. “Why don’t you two wait here while I go order? We’ll never get a server out here with that crush.” She sets her portfolio on the ground beneath the table as she tells Annie that the menu is limited, but assures her that whatever she orders will be fabulous. Cinna suggests they all three have whatever the special is for the day for simplicity’s sake and Portia slips through the people to place their order.
Picking up the conversation from before, Annie says, “It’s because they’re afraid of us.”
“What do you mean?” Cinna asks.
“We’ve all won our Games already, proved that we’re resourceful, maybe dangerous. Most of the tributes and mentors this year are friends, not strangers. They’re afraid we’ll fight back.”
“Annie, I don’t think you should talk about…”
“Don’t worry, Cinna. I wouldn’t say anything like that in the Training Center.” She isn’t sure why she said anything now, except that there’s something about Cinna that makes Annie trust him. Everyone surrounding them is engrossed in their own conversations, and she doesn’t think any of them are close enough to hear what she has to say anyway. The Peacekeepers she saw earlier are nowhere in sight.
Cinna leans across the table, closer to Annie. She can’t read his face, as much because of the studied neutrality of his expression as the dark glasses obscuring his eyes. “Haymitch thinks the government changed the terms of the Quell to punish the victors,” he whispers.
“So does Finnick.” Annie doesn’t know what she thinks about the terms of the Quell, other than that they are what they are. She blinks back sudden tears as she tells Cinna, “I don’t want him to die.” Cinna reaches across the table and takes Annie’s hand in his. “I don’t want to be used against him.”
“Used against him how, Annie?”
“Just me being here can be used to unsettle him, distract him from the Games.” Before she can say anything else, Portia returns with three glasses of something cold and wet, the glasses dripping with condensation.
“Our food will be here in about ten minutes,” she says as she hands out the drinks. It turns out to be lemonade of some kind and quite good. Dropping the more troubling thread of conversation, Cinna and Portia talk about the designs they’re working on for the upcoming interviews, how Cinna is modifying the wedding dress the Capitol chose for the girl from District 12, but Annie tunes most of it out. Their food arrives and they eat and the two stylists continue to talk, occasionally asking Annie’s opinion on something or clarifying a term used, but mostly allowing her to keep to herself. The food is good and Annie enjoys listening to Portia and Cinna and just being outside in the open air.
She watches the people move around the area, which is very much like a more polished version of the market square back home. Annie sees two pairs of Peacekeepers patrolling the pedestrian zone, which is far fewer than in District 4 and they don’t seem to be armed, but they are there, reminding Annie again of the brief incident at the Training Center. Those Peacekeepers knew who she was. They didn’t try to stop Cinna or Portia from leaving, just her. There had to be a reason for that and she has no illusions that the reason is something that means good things for her.
The more she thinks about it, the more convinced Annie becomes that she could be used to hurt Finnick. By the time their meal is finished and Portia is ready to leave for her interview, Annie has decided that it’s best if she doesn’t go back to the Training Center. Finnick made his way from the Capitol to District 4; she can do it, too. Before they ever left for the reaping, Finnick made it clear that he wanted his family to take themselves and Annie out to sea where they’d have a chance at staying clear of whatever trouble was brewing. He wanted her well away from the Capitol with its long reach. Being here now is the opposite of what Finnick wanted for her.
“Annie, I’m so sorry we bored you with our shop talk,” Portia says as she stands. She finishes her lemonade and sets the empty glass down, reaches under the table for her portfolio.
“You didn’t bore me,” Annie tells her truthfully. She doesn’t mention that she didn’t pay much attention to their conversation.
“Well, you two, wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck, Portia,” Cinna tells her. “You have imagination and skill. Just make sure Regina Blalok knows that.” Portia accepts his kiss on her cheek and turns to leave.
“Good luck, Portia,” Annie calls after her. The older woman waves a hand as she runs across the street and disappears around a corner.
“I suppose we should be getting back to the Training Center,” Cinna says.
“I’m not going back.” Cinna looks at her.
“Not going back?”
“I’m not going to let them use me against him. I’m going home. It’s not like I’m needed here. I don’t know how to be a mentor.”
Cinna’s eyebrows rise up above his dark glasses. “How are you going to get from here back to District Four?”
“I’ll take the train.”
“Do you have any money?” Annie looks down at her empty plate, as if the answer to his question were sitting there, waiting for her to discover it. She didn’t even pay for her own meal. She looks back up at him when he says, “You don’t have any money, do you? And you don’t have the necessary documents to travel between districts. You haven’t thought this through, Annie.”
“I can’t stay here.”
He stands up from the table. “Let’s walk.” He waits for Annie to join him and then heads down the street, away from the crowded pedestrian zone, but also away from the Training Center. “Your name and face have been in the news recently, since the victors began arriving from the districts. You could possibly get by simply because you’re a victor. That carries a lot of weight in this city, but it’s no guarantee you won’t be stopped.”
“You’ll help me then?” Annie feels a brief surge of hope.
“I shouldn’t.” Cinna stops and turns toward Annie, presses a piece of hard plastic into her hand. “Take this. There should be enough on it to buy a train ticket, if you can find an agent who will overlook your lack of travel documents.”
She slips the card into her back pocket. “You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
“If it comes to it, I’ll say I lost it.”
“Why would you do this for me?”
“Let’s just say that while I’m not convinced you’ll be used against anyone, I’m also not convinced that you won’t. You clearly believe that it’s a real threat, and I’ve seen some things this past year that disturb me.” He looks around, but no one is paying them any attention. He points up a cross street. “At the next intersection you can hop on a cable car that will take you to the train station.”
Annie takes both of Cinna’s hands and stretches up to kiss him. “Thank you, Cinna.” As she says the words, she has a flash of memory, a different setting, a different situation, but the same man. This isn’t the first time he has helped her when she needed it. “I won’t forget.”
“Go before I think better of it.”
She quickly crosses the street. When she turns back to wave goodbye, he is already walking back toward the Training Center. Beyond him she sees a flash of white - Peacekeepers. “I won’t forget, Cinna,” she whispers and hurries up the street, her pulse suddenly racing.
Before she reaches the next intersection, she sees a cable car pull to a stop and she breaks into a run. She’s the last to board and glances back down the way she came, but she sees no one following.
“Payment?” Annie looks up at the driver and after a beat realizes what he’s asking.
“How far is it to the train station?”
He shrugs. “Two minutes? Maybe three?”
Annie reaches into her back pocket and runs the card Cinna gave her through the slot to pay for the ride. The driver releases the brake as she returns the card to her pocket, but as she heads toward the back of the car, expecting it to start moving while she takes a seat, a Peacekeeper boards from the opening at the opposite end. Trying not to draw too much attention to herself, Annie turns, but another Peacekeeper boards right behind her, trapping her.
“Miss Cresta, please come with us.” It’s the same pair that stopped her at the Training Center. Unlike the ones patrolling the pedestrian zone, these two carry pistols; she doesn’t remember if they were wearing sidearms when they stopped her earlier. She worries that something has happened to Cinna because of her, not that he’s been shot, but that he may have been arrested.
“So I am a prisoner.” She feels the prick of tears behind her eyes and blinks them away.
“No, ma’am. It’s for your own safety.” The female Peacekeeper takes Annie’s arm as she pushes her way to the front of the cable car. The rest of the passengers are either studiously avoiding looking at Annie or they’re watching the whole thing with fascination. There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground.
“My safety.” Annie begins to laugh as they take her back to her prison. She can’t make herself stop.
Chapter 16 - Fractured Moonlight on the Sea
Chapter Title: Long Way Home
Rating: (this chapter) PG-15
Word count: 7,583
Betas: mrsdrjackson and pinkfinity (all mistakes and missteps are my own)
Focus: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Characters: Finnick Odair, Annie Cresta, Coriolanus Snow, Haymitch Abernathy, Chaff, Cinna, Portia
Summary: “It’s called Oblivion,” he tells her. “It’ll make you forget, at least for a little while.”
Warnings: drug use, foul language
Author's note: Posted a day early because OMG THE MOVIE OPENS IN JUST OVER 24 HOURS!!!!! *ahem* The title of this chapter is from "Keep Drivin'" by Katherine McPhee, which is on the fic soundtrack that you can download here.
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Chapter Fifteen - Long Way Home
Finnick feels it when the nightmares begin. Annie becomes rigid in his arms for just a moment and then relaxes, but not completely, her muscles still twitching in her arms, her legs. She presses her head into the pillow and a breath of sound escapes her lips. He tightens his arms around her, but rather than settling her, as it usually does, she stiffens, whips her head backward, nearly clipping his chin. She says clearly, “No,” and it doesn’t stop as she pushes against him, the words just fall into a broken pattern: no, can’t touch, no, no, didn’t teach.
Teach? “Annie, baby, it’s a dream.”
“No, no, no…”
She wouldn’t tell him what happened beyond saying Snow touched her, confirmed by Martin. Martin also told him that Snow spoke to her, but she denied it, insisted in her quiet way that he’d said nothing. And then, after a time of alternating between retreating inside herself to a place Finnick couldn’t follow and dragging herself back to him, Annie asked him to make her forget, which he did, with his mouth and his hands and his body. She slept afterward, but lightly, the slightest sound, the slightest movement on his part pulling her back to wakefulness, only to drift off again moments later.
“Not fair…”
“What’s not fair, Annie?” He keeps his voice low and soft. She needs the sleep, so he doesn’t want to wake her if he doesn’t have to, if he can redirect the nightmare into something less troubling.
“Used,” she murmurs. He pulls his arm out from under her, props himself up on his elbow and reaches out to smooth her hair from her face and suddenly she’s fighting to escape whatever has her in her nightmare, limbs thrashing with increasing violence. “No!” Before he can either catch her arms or back away, she connects with his cheek, bone to bone, he isn’t sure if it’s her elbow or her fist. Before she can truly hurt either herself or him, Finnick rolls over her, pins her wrists above her head, traps her legs under his.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Annie, wake up.” She fights him, struggles to buck him off. He keeps his voice steady, calm, completely at odds with the turmoil inside him. Snow did this to her. “Annie.”
She goes still beneath him and he looks down at her face, sees her eyes glistening with tears in the moonlight that filters in through the window. She licks her lips and blinks away the tears, opens her mouth to say something, but then stops, closes her eyes and turns her face away from him.
“Annie, please.”
“I’m okay, Finnick. It was just a nightmare,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” He rolls off her and pulls her back into his arms. She weaves the fingers of her right hand with his left. “What were you dreaming of? It wasn’t your Games.”
Her fingers still. “Nothing. It was just a dream.”
“Don’t lie to me, Annie.” Even as he says the words, he feels her body relaxing back into sleep. “Don’t shut me out.” He kisses her hair, breathes, “I wish I could keep you safe.” But safety is such a relative thing, he has always known that, hinging on a bargain made with a malicious and spiteful man.
He and Annie had been together for maybe a year, keeping it secret save from his family and the other residents of Victors’ Island, when Snow called him into his office. He’d been in the Capitol for a couple of weeks with no sign of anything wrong. He had an appointment later that evening to attend an awards ceremony with a woman Snow had already told him had to be kept happy no matter what. Snow left him waiting for nearly twenty minutes, standing in front of the desk while the president took care of paperwork and then a phone call before circling his desk to stand in front of Finnick.
“I hear rumors that you have a girlfriend,” Snow finally said. He held a rose bud in one hand, not one of the ones he always wore, but red. He sniffed at it and then reached a finger under Finnick’s lapel, pinned the delicate bud there, a drop of blood caught on the dark fabric.
Forcing his voice to a steadiness he didn’t feel, Finnick responded, “Is that why I’m here? Because you heard a rumor?” He knows he knows he knows…
Snow sat on the corner of his desk and studied Finnick for a moment. “You’re seeing Annie Cresta,” he states. “My understanding is that she has moved in with you.”
Finnick stiffened his knees to keep them from buckling. “How…?”
“How doesn’t matter.” Snow smiled at him, a slow stretch of lips. “Congratulations, Finnick. Do you plan to marry? Because I’m sure, given how popular you are with our citizens, we could give you two quite a beautiful wedding.”
“We…” Finnick swallowed, his voice failing him. He tried again. “We don’t have any plans to marry.”
“Pity. I’m sure your Annie would make a lovely bride. I’m pleased that she has recovered from her… difficulties following her victory. I had no idea.” Of course you didn’t, Finnick thought. It was far better for Annie if everyone believed she was crazy. Finnick had fostered that impression ever since her victory tour; sometimes it was even true. Snow looked down at his hands, picked at something beneath one of his fingernails before looking back up at Finnick. “Bring her with you when you return for the upcoming Games,” he ordered, his voice full of his displeasure. “I’m sure the Capitol will love her as much as you do.”
A state of near panic settled in. “Please.”
“Please?” Snow cocked his head to one side and watched Finnick. “’Please’ what?”
“Please leave her alone.”
Snow raised one brow. “How old are you now, my boy?” he asked.
Finnick frowned at the non sequitur. “How old am I? Twenty-one.”
Snow nodded, a look of speculation, of calculation in his flat blue eyes. He studied Finnick for a minute or two longer before saying at last, “All right, Finnick. Your Annie may remain in District Four on one condition.”
“Anything.”
“You haven’t heard my condition.”
“I don’t care. I’ll do anything you want, just please, leave her alone.” He knew even as he said it that Snow would take advantage of it. He wasn’t disappointed.
“In addition to your own duties, you will fulfill those that would have been hers as well.” The President smiled again. “Or at least their equivalent.”
Finnick closed his eyes, clenched his hands into fists. The scent of the rose in his lapel drifted up into his nostrils, suffocating him. He opened his eyes. “Give me your word.”
Snow stood, walked over to Finnick, placed his hands on Finnick’s shoulders. Finnick towered over him, but they both knew who held all the power. “You have my word, Finnick. For as long as you perform for both of you, your Annie may remain snug at home.” His hands slid down Finnick’s arms, his fingers digging in above Finnick’s elbows with almost bruising force.
Tingling in his fingers brings Finnick back to the present. Annie is a warm and, at least for the moment, peaceful weight in his arms. He carefully pulls his dead arm out from under her and shifts backward in the bed, slides out from under the covers. He pauses to make sure Annie doesn’t stir, shaking his arm to get rid of the pins and needles before he heads into the bathroom.
He’s only gone for a couple of minutes when her shriek shatters the silence. He slams back through the door to the bedroom to find her sitting straight up in the bed, eyes wide, screaming a name, and he isn’t sure if it’s his or her district partner’s from five years before.
“Annie, I’m here.” He all but launches himself onto the bed. “Baby, I’m here. I’m here.” He pulls her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you.”
“There was so much blood.” Her words are muffled against his chest. The arena then. The boy who volunteered when Annie volunteered, who followed her into the arena. She shakes and her hands move restlessly where they’re trapped between them. Finnick glances at the clock: 12:03. He hasn’t slept at all and the sleep Annie managed hasn’t done her any good. “It was Erik and then it was you.”
“I’m right here, Annie. I’m not dead.”
“So much blood…” She pulls back from him. Again, there are tears in her eyes, her face is wet with them. “Make it stop.”
“Annie…”
“Make it go away.” She pushes her face into his chest again. “Hurts…”
He can’t stand it. He knows what she’s going through even if he doesn’t know exactly what Snow said to trigger it. Holding her in his arms, feeling her tremble, he makes a decision. He pulls away from her. At her sound of protest he promises, “I’ll be right back,” and heads into the bathroom again. Opening the cabinet over the sink, he pulls the contents off the lower shelf and pushes at the back until it slides to the left, revealing the space behind it and the bottle of pills he keeps there for emergencies.
He shakes out a small, translucent blue pill, rolling it between his thumb and index finger, and contemplates putting it back in the bottle. He stares at the pill for a few seconds, but he can’t get Annie’s screams out of his head. Finally he slips the bottle back into its hiding place and puts everything back the way it was, fills a glass with water, and returns to the bedroom, sits beside her on the bed.
She takes the pill from him and stares at it in the moonlight. “It’s called Oblivion,” he tells her. “It’ll make you forget, at least for a little while.” She looks from the pill between her fingers to Finnick, a question in her eyes. “It temporarily blocks memories,” he tells her. “Sometimes it delays the formation of new ones while you’re under it. Once it wears off, everything comes back, but it’s like the memories are old. They’re there, but there’s a distance to them.”
“How long…?”
“It varies from person to person. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, usually.”
She meets his eyes. “It sounds dangerous.”
He nods. “It can be. It’s addictive and it’s highly illegal. It was developed to help psych patients cope with trauma, but it sells on the streets as much for the side effects as for blocking memories.”
“You’ve used it?”
“Yes.” He looks away from her, not wanting her to see reflected in his eyes any part of the things he tried so hard to distance himself from. “It won’t make you truly forget, Annie, but it’ll make you not care for a while.”
She reaches up to stroke a finger down his jaw line, making him look at her again. “How many times?”
“The girl who gave them to me warned me not to take them too close together.” He shrugs. “She gave me a half dozen or so and said if I took them all in a matter of days, I’d be done for, addicted. That was three years ago and I still have three left. Two if you decide you want this one.” In response, she reaches for the glass of water, delicately takes the pill into her mouth and washes it down with half of the water. “It acts pretty quickly,” he warns her.
“Will it make me sleep?” she asks, snuggling against him again.
“No, but it’ll keep the nightmares at bay so you can stay asleep.”
“So tell me about those side effects the Capitolites want….” She traces patterns onto his chest, kisses his neck and collarbone. He laughs when the patterns start to drift lower, down his stomach.
“Heightened libido, reduced inhibitions,” he says, catching her wayward hand even as her fingers still and her breathing begins to even out. She’s so exhausted that neither of those particular side effects will come into play, at least not for a while. She seems to grow heavier in his arms as she drifts toward sleep again. He lays her back on the bed and stands, pulling the blanket over her.
“I don’t care about all the others, Finnick,” she murmurs, her voice blurry, “you’re mine.”
He bends down to kiss her forehead. “I am yours, Annie. Always have been, always will be.” He has no intention of lingering on just how short “always” might be for them. He stands there for a while, just watching her sleep. This time there won’t be any nightmares to wake her. She’ll sleep for hours, unlike him.
Finnick pulls on his underwear, then throws on a shirt and jeans and slips barefoot from the room. The floor outside their bedroom is lit only by dim nightlights, there to prevent Training Center guests from tripping over anything in the middle of the night. He hits the button to call the elevator and when it comes, he presses the button for the lobby.
It’s after hours, so no one is there to see it - not directly, anyway, although he’s sure the cameras will pick it up - when he steals a bottle of liquor from behind the bar. The end farthest from the door is where the grain-based alcohol is kept, but it’s dark and he doesn’t know exactly what he grabs beyond the fact that the bottle is full and unopened. It doesn’t matter what it is. His only plan is to go up to the roof and drink himself to oblivion, because he can afford the hangover in the morning better than he can the effects of the Oblivion he gave Annie. The last thing he needs is to blurt out something about rebellion or to do something their Mockingjay will find unforgiveable.
When he reaches the roof, he finds Haymitch and Chaff already there. Haymitch, sitting with his back against the low wall that backs the garden area, waves him in and gestures to the empty bottle beside the unconscious Chaff, sprawled in front of Haymitch. “You’re just in time, Odair. Bastard drank the last of my hooch.”
Finnick slides down beside Haymitch and twists the top from the bottle, takes a swig and hands it to the older man. “That’s exactly why I’m here, Haymitch, to supply you with more booze.”
Haymitch pats Finnick on one upraised knee and grins at him. “Good man.” He passes the bottle back to Finnick.
“What’s up with him?” Finnick kicks lightly at Chaff’s shoulder. “Training wasn’t that tough.”
“Just hit him it’s his last week on this earth and he has to spend it with you losers. ‘s enough to drive anyone to drink.”
“Truer words…” Finnick drinks and then hands the bottle back to Haymitch.
“Why’re you here, boy?”
“Can’t sleep.” He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, listens to the chimes tinkling in the light breeze. “Annie had a bad night. Really bad. Screaming bad.” Haymitch knocks the bottle against Finnick’s knee; Finnick closes his fingers around the neck of it when Haymitch presses it into his hand. “She never screams, Haymitch.” He drinks.
“Fucking Snow,” Haymitch says and takes the bottle from Finnick. “Why the hell are you here instead of with her?”
“She’s asleep.”
Haymitch snorts. “I doubt that’ll last long.”
“I gave her something to help.” Finnick can feel Haymitch staring at him in the dark.
“What’d you give her?”
He considers lying; Haymitch never understood using drugs to cope, which is all kinds of ironic. “Oblivion,” he tells him.
“You stupid son of a bitch. What the fuck were you thinking? Oblivion? That shit is as addictive as it gets.” Haymitch’s anger, directed at Finnick, is a little surprising.
“One hit isn’t going to addict her and I was thinking that I could make the pain go away for a little while.”
“Fucking idiot.” Haymitch downs a good quarter of the bottle. “I bet you fucked her, too, didn’t you?” he mutters.
Finnick’s vision whites out, flaring then fading in time with the roar of blood in his ears. For a moment he feels like he’s going to be sick and he isn’t sure if it’s from the rush of adrenaline or at the implication that he used Annie, took advantage of her in her weakened state, and at the fact that it came from one of his oldest, closest friends.
There’s a sound from the vicinity of his feet, movement, then Chaff says, “Haymitch.”
“Aw fuck. Finnick, I’m sorry.” Haymitch’s voice is rough.
“That’s okay.” Finnick’s voice is much steadier than it has any right to be. “I guess I’m a fool for thinking we were friends.” He pounds the back of his head against the wall. “This place poisons everything.” When he closes his eyes, he sees another night almost eight years ago, drinking with these two men as they helped put him back together after Snow had done his best to break him into pieces.
“Damn it, Finnick. We are friends, you stupid bastard. I didn’t mean-”
“Yes you did, or you wouldn’t have said it.”
“I was drunk. I am drunk.”
“When are you not drunk?”
Chaff pushes himself to a sitting position, looks at the two men leaning side by side against the low wall. He reaches for the bottle in Haymitch’s hand. “You’re right about one thing, Finnick: This place is poison.” He drinks and passes the bottle back to Haymitch. “’Course the boy fucked her, Haymitch. They’re young, they’re pretty, and they’re practically married. And you…” He hits Finnick’s knee with a fist. “You know damn well ‘mitch here talks a whole bunch of shit he don’t mean when he’s well and truly drunk. So both of you, get over it.” With that he stands a bit unsteadily, catches himself on the railing that extends above the low wall, and then lurches toward the elevator. “I’m for bed.”
Haymitch waves the bottle at him. Finnick wishes him a good night. After a time, Haymitch bumps into Finnick’s shoulder to gain his attention and then hands him the bottle. They drink in silence, Haymitch lost in his own thoughts as Finnick replays in his mind everything he said and did since Martin told him about Annie and Snow. In spite of Haymitch’s reaction, he can’t say he’d change anything.
“What I gave her is a hell of a lot safer for her than that rotgut you live on,” he tells Haymitch. The knowledge swims before him of how crucial Haymitch’s Katniss is to their hoped-for rebellion and how she’s being deliberately kept in the dark. “At least I didn’t feed her something she knew nothing about and hope for the best.”
“Son of a bitch.” Haymitch takes another drink. He says nothing else, just sits there beside Finnick holding the bottle. Finally he drinks again and hands the bottle to Finnick once more. “It’s too dangerous to tell her.”
Finnick rolls his head along the wall to look at Haymitch. “It’s too dangerous to not.”
“Shit.” Haymitch rubs his face with both hands and then levers himself to his feet, wobbling a bit before grabbing onto the railing.
“You need help getting back, old man?” Finnick asks, making no effort to get up.
“Nah,” Haymitch says, following it with a belch of epic proportions. “I’ve got this.” He lets go of the railing and starts to walk toward the elevator, but his balance is off and he ends up shuffling nearer to the wall.
Finnick takes another swig as he watches; there’s not much left in the bottle, so he finishes it and rolls to his feet, too, not sure if he’s going to get another bottle or head back to bed and try to sleep. Haymitch is still about as far from the elevator now as he was a few minutes ago, still next to the low wall when he trips and heads right for the railing, barely catching himself. Finnick rushes over to him and grabs him by the arm, pulling him away from the wall and the railing and the force field as Haymitch laughs.
“Wouldn’t that be something? Live twenty-five years with the consequences of using their damned force field only to have it puke me back up when I trip into it.”
“Yeah, Haymitch, that’d be something.” He slings Haymitch’s arm over his shoulder.
Waiting for the elevator, Haymitch looks over at him and says, “I’ll take care of her, Finnick.”
“Like you did this afternoon?”
A sharp intake of breath, then, “That’s not fair and you know it.”
Finnick drops his voice, makes it gravelly, rough, and says, “Welcome to your life, kid. Fair don’t enter into it.”
“Shit.”
xXx
Annie wakes to silence. She opens her eyes and turns her head on the pillow, reaches out to her left, but Finnick isn’t there. Silence and solitude. She stretches, wincing at the tightness in her shoulders and neck, and sits up to a room filled with midday sunlight filtering in through the window, where the curtains are open wide. A glance at the clock and the emptiness in her stomach confirm that it’s nearly lunchtime.
And then it hits her: this isn’t her home. Nothing in the room is familiar, not the furniture, not the bedclothes, not the artwork on the walls, not the view of what looks like an apartment building outside the only window. Tendrils of fear start to worm their way into her consciousness.
The last thing Annie remembers is a moving train. There was the awful reaping before that, but nothing after. My head… She touches her forehead, but there’s no sign of any injury there. Instead, her muscles ache, especially her neck and shoulders. She’s not wearing any clothes and there’s a different kind of ache between her legs. Panic starts to set in and she folds herself into a ball on the bed, her hands over her head, but then she quashes the panic before it can truly take hold, pushes herself upright again. Think, Annie. The train was headed to the Capitol for the Hunger Games. So this must be the Capitol.
She forces herself to look around the room more closely, to pay attention to the details. She’s not in the middle of the bed, but rather on the same side she sleeps on at home and there’s an indentation in the pillow beside hers; both things tell her that she shared the bed with someone else. She picks up the pillow beside her and holds it to her face and it smells like home. It smells like Finnick. She breathes a little easier. There are little bits and pieces around the room that belong to him, too. Okay, so this is his room in the Training Center.
Draped over the footboard of the bed is a shirt and jeans that she doesn’t recognize, but that look like something she would wear. Might have worn? How long have I been here? A thought scratches at the back of her brain, a flash of something that might be a memory, an answer to her question, but it’s gone before she can catch it.
She stares for a time at the alien view from the window, trying to chase down anything between the train and now, but only succeeds in causing herself a headache. She flings the covers away in frustration and swings her legs over the side of the bed. “I need a shower,” she announces aloud then stands, walks over to the dresser and without thinking about it, opens a drawer and pulls out underwear, opens another and pulls out a short-sleeved shirt. She takes those and the jeans from the end of the bed into the bathroom before it hits her that she knew exactly where the clothes were.
A flash of close-cropped brown hair and laughing green eyes above a stack of clothing. “Mags sent them.” Annie blinks and it’s gone, but not before she puts a name to the face. “Martin Perch,” she says to her reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowns. Beside the tangle-haired girl in the mirror is a piece of paper. Reaching out, she pulls it from the glass, leaving behind a spot of what appears to be liquid soap. She recognizes Finnick’s sprawling handwriting.
Annie, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there when you woke. I had to go to training (2nd day - UGH). You’re in the Capitol in the Training Center, you’re supposed to be my mentor for the Games, and there’s a reason you can’t remember anything from the last couple days. I’ll answer any questions you have when I see you tonight, but if you’re feeling up to it, you can join Martin in the Headquarters building (across the courtyard). Or you could go up to the TC roof. I remember you used to like the gardens up there. They’ve changed a little since you were here last, much nicer. For one thing, NO ROSES. Lots
There’s an arrow at the bottom, indicating there’s more on the back, so Annie turns the page over. The middle of the top two lines are a little blurry from the soap, but still legible.
of windchimes and suncatchers. If you get hungry, you can order something up - just use the microphone thing by the bedroom door. Or you can go down to the lobby. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Mags is threatening me with her cane. I love you. Finnick
P.S. The note was in here instead of the bedroom because I didn’t think you’d see it in there. I hope I didn’t worry you too much. F
P.P.S. This time if anyone accuses me of breaking the mentor/tribute rules, it’s actually true. F
Crap! PPPS. If you do leave the suite, be careful.
She laughs. His writing is larger and messier as it goes on, the second post script huge and loopy until the final post script is nothing more than a cramped scribble as he ran out of room. She pictures Mags poking at him with her cane as he writes and she grins, lays the note down on the counter by her clothes, and steps into the shower. Apparently, no one expects her anywhere, so she can take as long a shower as she’d like.
Finnick’s note allayed most of her fears, although she definitely wants an explanation for the huge gap in her memory of the last few days. She doesn’t really want to eat alone in the room or in the lobby with all the people that are sure to be there, but if the courtyard isn’t too crowded, the thought of listening to the fountain while she eats is nice. It’s not the ocean, but it is water and she’s good at pretending.
Once showered, Annie quickly dresses and calls up the elevator. When it arrives, she punches the button for the lobby and then turns around to watch her descent. An enormous television screen above the bar shows a shifting scene of what looks like people in the districts setting up public viewing platforms for the Games. The lobby is just as crowded as she thought it would be, all the tables and all the spaces at the bar filled, which doesn’t bode well for the courtyard. Annie decides between the crowd and the “entertainment,” she’ll go back to the fourth floor and order something there, take it up to the roof to eat.
The doors open and she reaches out to press the button for her floor when a voice stops her. “Annie?” A man in simple black and green stops in front of the elevator. There’s a woman with him who looks somewhat more typical of the Capitol’s citizens, maybe a couple of years older than her companion, carrying something in a metal case. Instead of closing the doors on them, Annie steps through and lets them close behind her. The man smiles at her and says, “You look so much better than the last time I saw you. How are you?”
“Do I know you?” she asks, frowning. She’s not sure why she got off the elevator instead of riding it back up, but there’s something familiar about the man. She’s fairly sure she’s never seen the woman before.
His smile fades. “Annie, I’m Cinna. We met the day before yesterday.” He glances at his companion who watches the interplay with curiosity. “You don’t remember?”
Annie studies his face, stopping at his gold-lined, gold-flecked green eyes. A kind smile. A damp scrap of blue and purple cloth. Gentle fingers on her chin. Soothing hands at her forehead. She blinks. “Cinna. Yes, I…” Blinks again. “On the train.” Meeting Cinna is definitely something she’s going to ask Finnick about.
“Yes,” Cinna confirms cautiously. “We met on the train.”
Frowning, Annie says, “You’re the stylist for District Twelve.” That much comes to her easily, but she doesn’t remember anything about meeting him beyond his eyes, his smile, and him wiping away the blood with that blue and purple… “Scarf. It was a scarf.” At the look on his face, she says, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so confusing. I had a head injury and…” She shrugs. She doesn’t know what else could have caused the enormous hole in her memory, although Finnick’s note implied that there is something.
Cinna seems to accept that, looking relieved. He gestures toward his companion. “Annie, this is Portia, my styling partner. Portia, this is Annie Cresta of District Four.” Portia holds out a hand and after a brief hesitation, Annie shakes it. Neither of them seems to notice the delay. “Annie, Portia and I were going out for lunch. Would you like to join us?”
“Please do, Annie,” Portia adds to his invitation. “Cinna told me he watched the opening ceremonies with you. He has some beautiful sketches of you to prove it.” Oh, really?
Portia seems friendly enough and, like Cinna, she doesn’t have that accent Annie associates with the Capitol. Looking from Portia’s friendly smile to Cinna’s cautious concern, Annie asks, “Is there someplace that isn’t so crowded?”
“It is a little loud in here, isn’t it?” Cinna observes. “Portia? Harriman’s?”
“That would be perfect!” She turns to Annie. “I have an interview I have to go to at 2:00,” she gives her metal case a little shake and Annie realizes it must be some kind of portfolio, “but Harriman’s is just around the block from where I have to be.”
“An interview?” Annie asks.
“Portia has a shot at becoming the personal stylist for Regina Blalok,” Cinna tells her.
Annie looks back and forth between them. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.” Portia looks skeptical, but Cinna just laughs.
“There’s no reason you should, Annie. She’s a big deal here in the Capitol, but I doubt you’ve heard of her in the districts.” He gestures toward the lobby and the double doors on the other side. “Shall we?”
Portia moves ahead of Annie and Cinna and turns to walk backwards. “Regina Blalok is a singer, Annie. She’s becoming more and more popular every day. I hear she even had a brief fling with your district’s Finnick Odair a few months back.”
Neither of them seems to notice Annie’s silence as they step through the glass doors and into the midday sunshine. Cinna leans in closer to Annie and whispers loudly, “She’ll be old news by this time next year.” He glances at Portia to judge her reaction and Annie gets the impression it’s a running joke between them.
Stepping from the shade of the buildings and into the direct light of the sun hurts Annie’s eyes and makes her skin itch. Cinna slips a pair of sunglasses over his own eyes. The air temperature is hot, although not nearly as hot as it would be back home. Portia, still walking backward, is telling Cinna why he’s wrong about Regina’s staying power and they’re both laughing when a white-uniformed Peacekeeper stops Annie with a hand on her shoulder.
“Where are you going, Miss Cresta?” she asks as another Peacekeeper stops beside her. Neither of them appears to be armed, but even so, Annie’s heart beats a little faster.
Annie steps back far enough that the woman would have to follow her to keep her hand on Annie’s arm. “We’re going for lunch.”
“I’ll have to check-”
A frisson of fear slithers down Annie’s spine as she remembers the Peacekeepers who came to Finnick’s parents’ home to take him back to the Capitol. “Check on what?” she interrupts. “Am I a prisoner?” Cinna and Portia are no longer smiling.
“Is there a problem, officer?” Cinna asks, moving a little closer to Annie, but Portia takes it a step further.
“Oh, this is ridiculous. Annie is a victor, not a tribute. She’s going to lunch with us and that’s that.” She takes Annie by the hand and starts toward the street.
“Portia…” Cinna starts but she doesn’t let him finish.
“I have been a stylist for these Games for six years, Cinna. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Mentors and visiting victors can come and go as they please.” She keeps walking, dragging Annie along with her. Annie glances over her shoulder and sees Cinna shrug as he says something to the Peacekeepers, who don’t seem to know quite what to do, before hurrying to catch up with Annie and Portia.
“You can slow down now, Portia,” he says when he draws close. “Annie did have a rather nasty concussion just a couple of days ago.”
Portia stops. “Oh, Annie, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Annie looks from the contrite Portia to the amused Cinna and a laugh bubbles up from inside. It feels like people have been asking her that question for days. “It’s okay, Portia. They fixed it in the Remake Center.” After she says it, she realizes that it’s true. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but when it was over, Annie was no longer in pain.
Taking a deep breath, Portia leads Annie and Cinna down the street at a more sedate pace. “I wonder what that was all about?” Portia says when they have to stop at a corner to wait for traffic. She looks over at Annie and points across the street and halfway up the next block. “Harriman’s is right there, Annie. Do you see the red canopy? Not too far from the Games complex.”
Not nearly far enough, Annie thinks as the traffic stops, allowing them to cross. They walk in silence the short distance to the restaurant, weaving between other pedestrians. The part of the city block Harriman’s faces is in a zone marked no cars or other motorized vehicles allowed, which allows their seating, along with that of a couple of neighboring restaurants, to spill out into the pedestrian area.
“The Training Center staff seem a little jumpy this year,” Cinna observes as he snags a table for three under a large shade tree a little way into the no vehicle zone where it’s less crowded. “And I don’t recall there being quite so many Peacekeepers for the last Games.” Annie sees a pair of them walking through the pedestrian zone, but they don’t seem to be paying any particular attention to anyone or anything, just patrolling.
Portia looks thoughtful. “Do you suppose it’s because of the Quarter Quell?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, though. “Why don’t you two wait here while I go order? We’ll never get a server out here with that crush.” She sets her portfolio on the ground beneath the table as she tells Annie that the menu is limited, but assures her that whatever she orders will be fabulous. Cinna suggests they all three have whatever the special is for the day for simplicity’s sake and Portia slips through the people to place their order.
Picking up the conversation from before, Annie says, “It’s because they’re afraid of us.”
“What do you mean?” Cinna asks.
“We’ve all won our Games already, proved that we’re resourceful, maybe dangerous. Most of the tributes and mentors this year are friends, not strangers. They’re afraid we’ll fight back.”
“Annie, I don’t think you should talk about…”
“Don’t worry, Cinna. I wouldn’t say anything like that in the Training Center.” She isn’t sure why she said anything now, except that there’s something about Cinna that makes Annie trust him. Everyone surrounding them is engrossed in their own conversations, and she doesn’t think any of them are close enough to hear what she has to say anyway. The Peacekeepers she saw earlier are nowhere in sight.
Cinna leans across the table, closer to Annie. She can’t read his face, as much because of the studied neutrality of his expression as the dark glasses obscuring his eyes. “Haymitch thinks the government changed the terms of the Quell to punish the victors,” he whispers.
“So does Finnick.” Annie doesn’t know what she thinks about the terms of the Quell, other than that they are what they are. She blinks back sudden tears as she tells Cinna, “I don’t want him to die.” Cinna reaches across the table and takes Annie’s hand in his. “I don’t want to be used against him.”
“Used against him how, Annie?”
“Just me being here can be used to unsettle him, distract him from the Games.” Before she can say anything else, Portia returns with three glasses of something cold and wet, the glasses dripping with condensation.
“Our food will be here in about ten minutes,” she says as she hands out the drinks. It turns out to be lemonade of some kind and quite good. Dropping the more troubling thread of conversation, Cinna and Portia talk about the designs they’re working on for the upcoming interviews, how Cinna is modifying the wedding dress the Capitol chose for the girl from District 12, but Annie tunes most of it out. Their food arrives and they eat and the two stylists continue to talk, occasionally asking Annie’s opinion on something or clarifying a term used, but mostly allowing her to keep to herself. The food is good and Annie enjoys listening to Portia and Cinna and just being outside in the open air.
She watches the people move around the area, which is very much like a more polished version of the market square back home. Annie sees two pairs of Peacekeepers patrolling the pedestrian zone, which is far fewer than in District 4 and they don’t seem to be armed, but they are there, reminding Annie again of the brief incident at the Training Center. Those Peacekeepers knew who she was. They didn’t try to stop Cinna or Portia from leaving, just her. There had to be a reason for that and she has no illusions that the reason is something that means good things for her.
The more she thinks about it, the more convinced Annie becomes that she could be used to hurt Finnick. By the time their meal is finished and Portia is ready to leave for her interview, Annie has decided that it’s best if she doesn’t go back to the Training Center. Finnick made his way from the Capitol to District 4; she can do it, too. Before they ever left for the reaping, Finnick made it clear that he wanted his family to take themselves and Annie out to sea where they’d have a chance at staying clear of whatever trouble was brewing. He wanted her well away from the Capitol with its long reach. Being here now is the opposite of what Finnick wanted for her.
“Annie, I’m so sorry we bored you with our shop talk,” Portia says as she stands. She finishes her lemonade and sets the empty glass down, reaches under the table for her portfolio.
“You didn’t bore me,” Annie tells her truthfully. She doesn’t mention that she didn’t pay much attention to their conversation.
“Well, you two, wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck, Portia,” Cinna tells her. “You have imagination and skill. Just make sure Regina Blalok knows that.” Portia accepts his kiss on her cheek and turns to leave.
“Good luck, Portia,” Annie calls after her. The older woman waves a hand as she runs across the street and disappears around a corner.
“I suppose we should be getting back to the Training Center,” Cinna says.
“I’m not going back.” Cinna looks at her.
“Not going back?”
“I’m not going to let them use me against him. I’m going home. It’s not like I’m needed here. I don’t know how to be a mentor.”
Cinna’s eyebrows rise up above his dark glasses. “How are you going to get from here back to District Four?”
“I’ll take the train.”
“Do you have any money?” Annie looks down at her empty plate, as if the answer to his question were sitting there, waiting for her to discover it. She didn’t even pay for her own meal. She looks back up at him when he says, “You don’t have any money, do you? And you don’t have the necessary documents to travel between districts. You haven’t thought this through, Annie.”
“I can’t stay here.”
He stands up from the table. “Let’s walk.” He waits for Annie to join him and then heads down the street, away from the crowded pedestrian zone, but also away from the Training Center. “Your name and face have been in the news recently, since the victors began arriving from the districts. You could possibly get by simply because you’re a victor. That carries a lot of weight in this city, but it’s no guarantee you won’t be stopped.”
“You’ll help me then?” Annie feels a brief surge of hope.
“I shouldn’t.” Cinna stops and turns toward Annie, presses a piece of hard plastic into her hand. “Take this. There should be enough on it to buy a train ticket, if you can find an agent who will overlook your lack of travel documents.”
She slips the card into her back pocket. “You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
“If it comes to it, I’ll say I lost it.”
“Why would you do this for me?”
“Let’s just say that while I’m not convinced you’ll be used against anyone, I’m also not convinced that you won’t. You clearly believe that it’s a real threat, and I’ve seen some things this past year that disturb me.” He looks around, but no one is paying them any attention. He points up a cross street. “At the next intersection you can hop on a cable car that will take you to the train station.”
Annie takes both of Cinna’s hands and stretches up to kiss him. “Thank you, Cinna.” As she says the words, she has a flash of memory, a different setting, a different situation, but the same man. This isn’t the first time he has helped her when she needed it. “I won’t forget.”
“Go before I think better of it.”
She quickly crosses the street. When she turns back to wave goodbye, he is already walking back toward the Training Center. Beyond him she sees a flash of white - Peacekeepers. “I won’t forget, Cinna,” she whispers and hurries up the street, her pulse suddenly racing.
Before she reaches the next intersection, she sees a cable car pull to a stop and she breaks into a run. She’s the last to board and glances back down the way she came, but she sees no one following.
“Payment?” Annie looks up at the driver and after a beat realizes what he’s asking.
“How far is it to the train station?”
He shrugs. “Two minutes? Maybe three?”
Annie reaches into her back pocket and runs the card Cinna gave her through the slot to pay for the ride. The driver releases the brake as she returns the card to her pocket, but as she heads toward the back of the car, expecting it to start moving while she takes a seat, a Peacekeeper boards from the opening at the opposite end. Trying not to draw too much attention to herself, Annie turns, but another Peacekeeper boards right behind her, trapping her.
“Miss Cresta, please come with us.” It’s the same pair that stopped her at the Training Center. Unlike the ones patrolling the pedestrian zone, these two carry pistols; she doesn’t remember if they were wearing sidearms when they stopped her earlier. She worries that something has happened to Cinna because of her, not that he’s been shot, but that he may have been arrested.
“So I am a prisoner.” She feels the prick of tears behind her eyes and blinks them away.
“No, ma’am. It’s for your own safety.” The female Peacekeeper takes Annie’s arm as she pushes her way to the front of the cable car. The rest of the passengers are either studiously avoiding looking at Annie or they’re watching the whole thing with fascination. There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground.
“My safety.” Annie begins to laugh as they take her back to her prison. She can’t make herself stop.
Chapter 16 - Fractured Moonlight on the Sea