"I'll bring the drinks up to you when they're ready. For now, go relax, Love," Finnick says, playfully swatting Annie's outstretched hand away to keep her from snatching up the lime wedges that sit on a small plate on the counter. "Don't make me put you in that bed," he threatens with a smile, pointing a finger at her and shooting her a menacing look.
She crosses her thin arms and gives a defeated huff. Finnick raises his eyebrows, and she gives him an amused glance before grabbing a slice of the citrus fruit and running away with a soft giggle, almost, gracelessly, missing the first step on the way up the stairs to her room. He watches her as she retreats, shaking his head and grinning like a fool.
She is getting better. He can tell. He sees it in moments like these when she starts acting more like herself. She has made a lot of progress in the mere month that she has been back home in District 4 after winning the Games. There are still days when the memories get the best of her. She is on edge and a little erratic, more often than not. One nightmare, or worse, one thought, can set her back. It is that 'one step forward and two steps back' kind of thing, but he doesn't give up. Not on her. Not on Annie.
He shakes his head a few times to clear his mind before getting back to his current task at hand: mixing up some drinks. Annie has been nothing but pampered by Finnick for the last few weeks; he is doing everything in his power to make her feel better and feel more like herself. He's making her something his mother always made for him in the summertime. She would squeeze the juice out of an orange, lime, and lemon and mix it with sparkling water. He had always loved it and has the hope that Annie will, too.
Once he finishes stirring everything together in the pitcher, he sets the wooden spoon down and goes to the cupboard above the sink to grab some glasses. The sound of insistent mumbling coming from upstairs causes his head to turn and look at the staircase, and he sets the cups down, the drinks now forgotten.
"Annie?"
No answer.
"Annie, Love?" he calls, trying to keep the worry from seeping into his voice. There's no point in making her more upset by letting her know that he is, too, but he can't keep himself from worrying about her. He rushes to the stairs and up to her room, pushing her door open without knocking, hearing her mutter gibberish in that soft tone of hers.
She flinches, surprised, when she sees him walk in, and he gets a small pang of hurt in his chest. He smiles gently at her, though, to prevent her from becoming more startled, and he walks over and kneels beside the bed. He takes a deep breath to collect his thoughts; the mumbling that's spewing out of her mouth makes him feel uneasy.
"Hey, there." She nods a little at his voice, and he takes it as a good sign. She's not completely gone. "Are you doing alright?" he asks gently, laying his hand next to hers on the floral-patterned quilt that covers her bed.
She nods as a response.
He smiles a little and nods back. "Who are you talking to, Sweetheart?" he asks her, keeping a nonchalant tone. He knows it will offend her if he acts any differently. She shrugs as a response and continues to mumble to no one.
He begins to wonder if, sometimes, she doesn't even realizes that she is not fully with him. The thought scares him, so he does his best to push it away.
"Come on downstairs with me. The drinks are almost ready," he says softly, taking her hand in his. He almost draws his hand back again, surprised at the iciness of her skin. "Come on," he says again, forcing a smile, and he gently pulls on her hand, standing up. She gets up with him and her arms go around one of his. He leads her to the door, stopping to grab her robe off the hook on the back of it. "Here. Put this on for me," he coaxes, his gentle voice convincing enough for her, and she puts on the plush housecoat.
He kisses her cheek and takes her hand again before taking her downstairs.
The mumbling has ceased, but her mind is still elsewhere.