THG fic - Running From Ghosts (pg)
Title: Running From Ghosts
Rating: PG
Characters: Annie Cresta, Brutus
Summary: Annie's victory tour, particularly in District 2, whose tribute she killed to win the Games, is not a fun time. But then she meets someone who makes it a little more bearable.
Author's note: This was written for the incomparable for the occasion of her birthday (several days ago), when she lamented the lack of Annie and Brutus fic in the world.
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Feet pounding on the tile, Annie runs. Gulping down great gasps of air, Annie runs. Blood rushes in her ears, the roaring whisper of the arena she can never escape, and Annie runs. Over and over in her head, a never-ending refrain, but you’re dead but you’re dead but you’re dead dead dead. She hears Finnick’s voice as he shouts her name, slicing through the refrain like a shaft of sunlight slicing through dark storm clouds, and she runs, feet pounding faster and faster.
She bursts through a door. Bright light assaults her eyes. The thin air burns her lungs. She trips on uneven pavement, the fabric of her gown tangling around her ankles. Annie falls to her hands and knees with bruising force. She feels the fabric of the dress tear, thin silk replaced by rough pavement that scrapes the skin from her knees.
Another body slams through the door behind her, his footsteps actually speeding up when he sees her there on the bricks. Annie’s gaze fixes on the bright green moss that grows between the reddish-gray rectangles even strong hands lift her, set her back on her feet. She closes her eyes and those hands fall away.
“She’s dead,” Annie whispers. It doesn’t matter who this man is, doesn’t matter if he understands her or not. It only matters that he’s there. “I murdered her.”
“No,” the man says, his voice like granite, “you killed her twin.”
Eyes opening wide, Annie stares at the man in front of her. Not Finnick. Not even close. Finnick is tall, but this man is a giant, or near enough from her perspective. Dark hair cropped close to his skull, deep-set brown eyes focused on her with neither sympathy nor pity, but rather understanding. His crisp white shirt looks even more white against the honey tones of his skin; it hides muscles built over years of training. Annie doesn’t know his name, but he’s a victor. She’s sure of that.
He offers a hand for her to shake and she accepts it, but rather than engulfing her hand in his as so many others have over the days of this awful “victory” tour, he clasps her wrist instead and Annie does the same. Her tanned hand and arm is only a little lighter than his. His grip is firm, the gesture one of respect, not of domination.
“I’m Brutus, victor of the 43rd Games.”
“I’m Annie Cresta, victor of the 70th Games.” He smiles at that and she feels herself flush. Of course he knows who she is. It’s her victory tour. Everyone knows who she is, whether she wants them to or not. Even if she doesn’t know who she is anymore.
Something tickles her knee, her shin, and she bends to swipe at the tickle. Her hand comes away streaked with blood, sticky and red. The stain grows and spreads, covering her hand, creeping up her wrist. The girl from 2 who she killed in the arena, right at the very end, laughs in Annie’s ears. Closing her eyes, she lifts her hands to cover them, not caring that she transfers a smear of blood to her right cheek. Desperate to shut out the sound, Annie begins to hum, tunelessly at first, but then another voice, a sweet, rich baritone, joins hers, breaking through the barrier of her hands, shattering the ghostly laughter of a girl dead too soon.
The tune Brutus hums is familiar, a sea shanty she learned before she could walk. Focusing on his voice, Annie lowers her hands and hums along, following where Brutus leads. With each note, she travels a little further from the arena, from the flood of fresh water and salty blood. When she looks at his face, she catches a glimpse of a wistful smile before his mask of stone drops back into place.
“I apologize,” he says. “That’s the only song from Four that I know.”
“Finnick?” she asks, knowing how bawdy some of the lyrics to the song can be.
Brutus shakes his head. “Mags.” He smiles at Annie conspiratorially. “She is very difficult to keep up with.”
A door opens behind her, the same one Annie ran through only moments before. She doesn’t hear anything else, but Brutus gestures for whoever it is to leave. Looking down at Annie, he says, “I think they want you back inside.”
Looking down at torn silk the color of the sea back home, Annie sees drips and drops of blood as well as her own bare feet, her nails polished an iridescent pink. She has no idea where her shoes might be. “I don’t look much like a victor.”
“You, child, look exactly like a victor.” He squats down in front of her and takes a small knife from a sheath just above his ankle. A moment later, her once floor-length dress stops at her knees, not quite hiding the scrapes that have more or less scabbed over. Brutus pulls out a flask from his left hip pocket and splashes something pungent onto a scrap of silk before dabbing at her knee, wiping away the rest of the blood there. It stings, but Annie doesn’t flinch.
Standing once more, Brutus offers her his arm. “Shall we?”
Smiling tentatively, Annie lays her hand - not the blood-stained one - on his arm. Head held high, she returns to her victory tour.
Rating: PG
Characters: Annie Cresta, Brutus
Summary: Annie's victory tour, particularly in District 2, whose tribute she killed to win the Games, is not a fun time. But then she meets someone who makes it a little more bearable.
Author's note: This was written for the incomparable for the occasion of her birthday (several days ago), when she lamented the lack of Annie and Brutus fic in the world.
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Feet pounding on the tile, Annie runs. Gulping down great gasps of air, Annie runs. Blood rushes in her ears, the roaring whisper of the arena she can never escape, and Annie runs. Over and over in her head, a never-ending refrain, but you’re dead but you’re dead but you’re dead dead dead. She hears Finnick’s voice as he shouts her name, slicing through the refrain like a shaft of sunlight slicing through dark storm clouds, and she runs, feet pounding faster and faster.
She bursts through a door. Bright light assaults her eyes. The thin air burns her lungs. She trips on uneven pavement, the fabric of her gown tangling around her ankles. Annie falls to her hands and knees with bruising force. She feels the fabric of the dress tear, thin silk replaced by rough pavement that scrapes the skin from her knees.
Another body slams through the door behind her, his footsteps actually speeding up when he sees her there on the bricks. Annie’s gaze fixes on the bright green moss that grows between the reddish-gray rectangles even strong hands lift her, set her back on her feet. She closes her eyes and those hands fall away.
“She’s dead,” Annie whispers. It doesn’t matter who this man is, doesn’t matter if he understands her or not. It only matters that he’s there. “I murdered her.”
“No,” the man says, his voice like granite, “you killed her twin.”
Eyes opening wide, Annie stares at the man in front of her. Not Finnick. Not even close. Finnick is tall, but this man is a giant, or near enough from her perspective. Dark hair cropped close to his skull, deep-set brown eyes focused on her with neither sympathy nor pity, but rather understanding. His crisp white shirt looks even more white against the honey tones of his skin; it hides muscles built over years of training. Annie doesn’t know his name, but he’s a victor. She’s sure of that.
He offers a hand for her to shake and she accepts it, but rather than engulfing her hand in his as so many others have over the days of this awful “victory” tour, he clasps her wrist instead and Annie does the same. Her tanned hand and arm is only a little lighter than his. His grip is firm, the gesture one of respect, not of domination.
“I’m Brutus, victor of the 43rd Games.”
“I’m Annie Cresta, victor of the 70th Games.” He smiles at that and she feels herself flush. Of course he knows who she is. It’s her victory tour. Everyone knows who she is, whether she wants them to or not. Even if she doesn’t know who she is anymore.
Something tickles her knee, her shin, and she bends to swipe at the tickle. Her hand comes away streaked with blood, sticky and red. The stain grows and spreads, covering her hand, creeping up her wrist. The girl from 2 who she killed in the arena, right at the very end, laughs in Annie’s ears. Closing her eyes, she lifts her hands to cover them, not caring that she transfers a smear of blood to her right cheek. Desperate to shut out the sound, Annie begins to hum, tunelessly at first, but then another voice, a sweet, rich baritone, joins hers, breaking through the barrier of her hands, shattering the ghostly laughter of a girl dead too soon.
The tune Brutus hums is familiar, a sea shanty she learned before she could walk. Focusing on his voice, Annie lowers her hands and hums along, following where Brutus leads. With each note, she travels a little further from the arena, from the flood of fresh water and salty blood. When she looks at his face, she catches a glimpse of a wistful smile before his mask of stone drops back into place.
“I apologize,” he says. “That’s the only song from Four that I know.”
“Finnick?” she asks, knowing how bawdy some of the lyrics to the song can be.
Brutus shakes his head. “Mags.” He smiles at Annie conspiratorially. “She is very difficult to keep up with.”
A door opens behind her, the same one Annie ran through only moments before. She doesn’t hear anything else, but Brutus gestures for whoever it is to leave. Looking down at Annie, he says, “I think they want you back inside.”
Looking down at torn silk the color of the sea back home, Annie sees drips and drops of blood as well as her own bare feet, her nails polished an iridescent pink. She has no idea where her shoes might be. “I don’t look much like a victor.”
“You, child, look exactly like a victor.” He squats down in front of her and takes a small knife from a sheath just above his ankle. A moment later, her once floor-length dress stops at her knees, not quite hiding the scrapes that have more or less scabbed over. Brutus pulls out a flask from his left hip pocket and splashes something pungent onto a scrap of silk before dabbing at her knee, wiping away the rest of the blood there. It stings, but Annie doesn’t flinch.
Standing once more, Brutus offers her his arm. “Shall we?”
Smiling tentatively, Annie lays her hand - not the blood-stained one - on his arm. Head held high, she returns to her victory tour.