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finnick & annie
On the morning of his departure, she makes him granola with strawberries and sweet cream for breakfast. It's one of his favorites for the fact that the strawberry season passes quickly in many districts, but even quicker in District 4 because their soil has never been nourishing enough to grow anything other than hard, sour fruits, so the majority of their succulents are imported from outside.
He eats his meal quietly, savoring the crunch of the grain, the sweetness of each berry, the mellow smoothness of the cream. Pleasing in both taste and texture, and so very characteristic of Annie - Annie on her good days, collecting interesting bits of seashell and displaying them proudly on their mantle, as well as Annie on her bad days, jagged, sandy. The thought of that, of Annie having one of her episodes and him not being there to stop her from hurting herself, fills him with a low, simmering dread. Its a queasy feeling that lingers in his gut and makes each bite a little tougher to swallow, and by the time he's finished eating, he's begun to feel sick.
Annie turns, brown hair bundled into a loose bun, face haggard. "Let me wash it," she says, collecting his bowl. When he protests and reaches for it, she grabs his wrist, her grip surprisingly painful. The corded muscles of her arm are stretched wire-tight against the cover of pale skin. "No," she repeats, firmly. "You should get dressed. You have to be at the train by ten o'clock."
The strain on her - and how much worse must it be for her? - is clearly evident, defeating the reply lodged in the back of his throat. It's about her. It's always been about her. Gently, he kisses her on the forehead and manages a smile. "Okay. If that's fine with you."
She softens. "Yes. It's fine. Finn-" Annie takes a deep breath, as if in consideration of what she is about to say, then apparently discards the thought and resumes her washing. "It's getting late. You should hurry."
Once he's changed, he shrugs on a heavy wool-lined coat and Annie drapes a knitted shawl over her shoulders. In the front of their house is a car and a chauffeur, both paid for with his winnings. The driver, Marcus, helps them both into the backseat before starting the drive to the station. There's no need for luggage.
Mags, having gotten there earlier, is waiting for them on a bench when he and Annie finally arrive. His mentor hugs Annie first, and then him, whispering something into his ear that he can't catch, sound whisked away by the rumbling herald of the oncoming train's approach. He is filled with a strange trepidation as the train comes to a stop, screeching against the tracks, velvet interior parting softly to admit him into its carriage. There is Annie close to him, her body warm and comforting, and Annie is looking at him hollowly. She grips him by the collar, pulls him close to her, says, "Don't - don't -" Her lips quiver and her tears begin to spill over.
Finnick kisses her on the lips this time, carefully extricating her arms from his jacket, tells her, "I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Sir-" A voice clears, and he swivels to meet the helmeted stare of a white-clad Peacekeeper. "I'm afraid that it's time for you to leave."
Uncertainly, he looks to Mags. The old woman nods at him, as to assure him that he's doing the right thing. He walks, cold, into the train, through a corridor, to the window, and watches. He watches Annie go by, face a blur, watches until the station has disappeared and the district is far behind him.
"Will she be alright?" he asks Mags, who, by answer, places her hand over his. The two of them, sitting on a couch, say nothing, only relying on the feeling of each other's touch to fill the silence.