Finnick watches with increasing unease as the militarization of Thirteen under General Heavensbee continues. Plutarch doesn't have what it takes to make a formal army yet, but he's getting there. He's already forming a command structure from the inhabitants of Thirteen and his connections from throughout Panem who continue to arrive.

Finnick still hasn't gotten a private audience with Plutarch, and he's being excluded from the command meetings, which he knows about only because he, like everyone else, is keeping an eye on Katniss, and she is summoned to many of these.

Increasingly desperate measures don't get him anywhere. Finding out in advance where one is going to be held and showing up doesn't work. "Cashmere can wait outside if that's the problem."

All he gets is a generic platitude about how everyone's contributions are important and a reassurance that he will certainly be included in all meetings relevant to his role.

Mentally gritting his teeth under his camera-perfect smile, Finnick turns to Katniss as she passes him. He holds out a hand in appeal.

"Katniss-"

But she only slips into the conference room without acknowledging him. The soundproofed door is slammed shut behind her by the guard.

Cashmere looks at him nervously, but Finnick shakes his head and starts to head back. "It's not you. I don't know why they don't want me, but they don't."

With the direct approach failing, all Finnick can do is try a more indirect one. Fortunately, he has years of experience in it. He starts by reasoning that other victors are probably his best bet at getting into the inner circle. Katniss is avoiding him-and that may or may not be why he's getting left out of the inner circle-and Beetee is still hospitalized, so that leaves Haymitch.

"Would you mind giving me a rundown of what happened in the arena when I wasn't around?"

Haymitch gives him a knowing look. "Not exactly going to ask the people who were there?"

"Not exactly," Finnick agrees. "Cashmere, if you want to sit far enough away that you don't have to hear this, go right ahead."

She doesn't surprise him when she takes him up on the offer. Nor does most of what he hears surprise him. As he'd guessed, Katniss shot Gloss twice.

Well, he can't blame Cashmere for hating Katniss, but he's not sure why Katniss is still avoiding him.

"I'm sorry I had to hit on her in order to try to get some information through to her about the plan," Finnick says in frustration, "but last I checked, she was making out with someone she had no interest in for the same reason: it's how you save lives under that much surveillance."

"She's never been what you'd call friendly. Don't take it personally," Haymitch advises. "And I don't think she's in the mood for making new friends, after the whole district was wiped out."

"I haven't forgotten," Finnick says in a low voice. Was there a little acid in that reminder, or is that just his guilt at still having a home speaking? "I'm grateful you're willing to relive any of this with me, at a time like this."

And he needs to make the most of that willingness. So Finnick does what he does best. He makes small talk.

In the course of that small talk, he's careful to recount his spy adventures in the Capitol, and make them sound as impressive as possible. If the information makes its way up the chain of command, so much the better. At the very least, he needs Haymitch to take him seriously.

Story-telling seems to be doing the trick. Before he's even gotten halfway through, Haymitch is staring at him in disbelief.

"I had to keep Snow from paying any attention to me. So I made sure no one wanted to look at me. Drunk, vomiting, passing out on screen, you name it. And so I was able to get some work done behind the scenes. Hats off to you if you pulled that off with every eye in the country on you." He raises his glass to Finnick. "Mags did say you were sharp."

Finnick looks at him knowingly. "Let me guess. You didn't believe her."

Haymitch chuckles. "We'll just say it was a hard sell, pretty boy."

"Is Katniss buying?"

Haymitch looks uncomfortable. "The Hawthorne kid is. That might work in your favor. Eventually."

Foolish of Finnick to hope otherwise in the face of all the evidence. "But she's still speaking to you?" If she would just sit down and talk to him, he'd try to explain.

"Me, and the three or so other people she knows who are still alive."

Finnick flinches. "Do we have any news about Peeta? Are we getting any broadcasts from the Capitol at all?"

Haymitch looks at him sideways. "Yes to the second question."

Yes, there are broadcasts; no, Finnick hasn't seen or heard of any. Great, Plutarch's censoring. Suddenly, Finnick has a dark fear about why he's being excluded.

His thoughts must be obvious, because Haymitch says quickly, "No news on Annie either."

"But you would say that even if there were," Finnick points out, and Haymitch makes a wry face to admit it.

"But there's not," he repeats.

Against the urge to run, fight, kill, throw himself at Annie and cling until the world ends, Finnick keeps a cool face that he hopes speaks of maturity and self-control. "I won't do anything stupid. I got that out of my system in the arena."

"I'll tell you if I hear anything."

"Thanks." Finnick doesn't believe him, but sometimes even information that a source of information exists is headway. Now he knows to keep an eye and ear out for anyone who has access to broadcasts. "So Katniss avoiding me is nothing personal?"

Haymitch looks uncomfortable. "Well...it's hard to say when she goes on a rant whether it's why she's upset, or just because she's upset."

Be fair. Be fair. Finnick pushes down a host of contradictory emotions and just tries to remind himself that she has plenty of reason to be upset. At him personally and at the conspiracy. "She's ranted about me?"

Haymitch is toying with the buttons on his shirt rather than look at Finnick directly. "You wanna hear this?"

"Yes, I want to hear it!" Finnick says, impatient. "You think I cry over what people think of me, after years of playing a convincing airhead on television?"

"Guess not, at that. Well, her latest rant wasn't too impressed with you acting like the Capitol affairs were all part of a masquerade for the rebellion and Annie's the real thing, and then carrying on with her." Haymitch gestures with his chin toward Cashmere, sitting just out of earshot. Finnick hopes. "Now, I'm impressed," Haymitch hastens to add with a sly wink. "Skin like that and legs that go on forever. What Annie doesn't know can't hurt her, right?"

Finnick grinds his teeth but keeps his growl to himself. You said you didn't care what they thought, didn't you? "Make all the comments you want about me, but leave Cashmere out of it. She's done nothing but what she was told to do, to protect herself, her tributes, her family...Same here."

Haymitch stares at him. "But Snow didn't..."

"Threaten anyone but Katniss? Sure he did." Finnick knows he should be more patient, after years of convincing everyone he was a single-minded sex fiend, but the implication that he's deceiving Annie has him brittle. "How do you think it works when you're an attractive Career with sponsors? You fuck or you die. Or, not you, but anyone you care about. Mags, Annie, Gloss...If Katniss is willing to get married to save her family, she doesn't get to be high and mighty because some of us got a different deal. That pregnancy would have had to be real eventually. I hope you told her that."

"You said you were spying, though...?" Haymitch struggles to fit the pieces together.

"Yeah, and? Mags wanted information, Snow wanted obedience. Not everyone was lucky enough to have both." He nods toward Cashmere.

"Shit, kid. You want a drink?"

This time Finnick's laughter is genuine. "This has been going on for ten years, and you think I need a drink now?"

"Never too late to start," Haymitch points out. Then his eyes go wide with horror. "All those comments we made-"

"It's fine," Finnick interrupts. He really doesn't want this turning into an emotional scene. "You're not the only one. Hell, Annie teased me pretty hard about the Capitol before I told her."

"So Annie knows?"

"Of course she knows! What kind of monster do you think I am? I'm not keeping Cashmere a secret from her, either. Believe it or not, Annie's the only one not trying to control who I have sex with."

"She doesn't care?" Haymitch looks disbelieving. "I thought you were engaged."

"You've never heard of an open marriage?" Half of Finnick's publicized affairs were with married admirers.

"In the Capitol, sure, but at home?"

Finnick shrugs. "I don't know what you're doing in Twelve, but it's not unheard of where I come from."

Haymitch raises his eyebrows. "Don't take this the wrong way, but sometimes I think the Career districts are closer to the Capitol."

Finnick doesn't take it the wrong way. He's always known that. "Yeah, well, the other districts think I'm too Capitol to be trusted, and Plutarch doesn't seem to think anyone from the districts can be taken seriously. Unless they're from Twelve, I guess."

Privately, Finnick thinks Katniss is the only reason Plutarch's willing to include Haymitch in the inner circle. But he's not stupid enough to say it.

"Try growing a beard," Haymitch suggests. "It'll make you look older."

Finnick laughs. "Good one. I would if I could." It's actually a good suggestion, and Finnick wishes he could take it.

Haymitch stares at him. "Why the hell can't you?"

"Remake. Since when did we get any control over our bodies?"

"But that's not permanent," Haymitch protests.

"It is if you won at fourteen. Nobody wanted me with facial hair, so I got the permanent version. I've never shaved in my life."

"Wow." Haymitch raises his glass toward Finnick in acknowledgement of what he's been through. "Guess I knew what I was doing when I got them to ignore me."

"That's nothing." Finnick nods toward Cashmere. "She was put through surgery before she even made it to the arena."

Haymitch just shakes his head. There are penalties for being too pretty in this country. Finnick never let himself resent it until now, firmly telling himself that some people had real problems, but now he's bitterly wondering if he'll ever be allowed to contribute anything again.

Once Finnick and several of the others have gone through the firearms training course, they're assembled in the auditorium and assigned to teams patrolling the district in search of refugees. As with all the meetings Finnick's been invited to, it's a large group of people receiving instructions. Either he's missing the important meetings where attendees get a say in the agenda, or they're all like this, and he's not missing anything.

"I have a number of contacts," Plutarch opens, "who know to come here, and rumors are spreading. Peacekeepers, rebels, Avox, anyone who made it out of Twelve or the other districts...I'm expecting an influx. At the same time, our enemy will be trying not only to keep them from arriving, but trying to infiltrate our ranks.

"I'll be in charge of vetting the new arrivals," Plutarch says sternly, with a distrustful glance at Cashmere. "You just get them to the designated outpost alive."

Finnick takes the barb as his cue. "And if the enemy catches on, and there's an ambush at the outpost?" It's the first question anyone's asked, and Plutarch frowns as much at the interruption as the content.

"Outposts will change with every mission. If they start catching on before we've used an outpost, I'll conclude we have a spy among us." Another glance at Cashmere.

Finnick bites back his instinct to rush to her defense. Best not to protest too much. Just get on with it. "I want Hawthorne on my team," he says instead. "He's supposed to be good in the woods."

Plutarch thinks, but he can come up with no reason to deny the request. "If he has no objection, then I have none."

Gale has no objection, just as Finnick expected. Finnick's used to living life on a pedestal, and he has a good sense of just how much attention Gale needs before it becomes too much. Back at home, he was idol for half the academy once he was older than they were.

"I need to know the terrain around here," Finnick tells him. "And you're going to show me."

"You've been here as long as I have," Gale reminds him. "Katniss and I never came this far over the border."

"But you know how to move in a forest, what to look for, what animals live around here, and how to track and hunt them, that sort of thing. Or so I've heard."

"Yes," Gale acknowledges.

"Well, these are the forests of the northeast. I'm used to the seas of the southwest. So you're going to teach me what I need to know."

This is how Gale finds himself out in the woods with his new role model, trying to correct him without giving offense.

Finnick laughs when he catches on. "No, come on. You have no idea what the academy was like. You need to be at least one thousand times harder on me."

Gale doesn't quite believe it, but he does his best at teaching, and Finnick watches and learns. As always, he gets feedback from his own body, figuring out what works and what doesn't by trial and error, more than by explanation.

Finnick finds himself annoyed and impressed when he realizes that Cashmere, silent beside him as always, is picking up the same skills while going ignored. When he remembers that he's trying to integrate her into the team in District Thirteen, he starts trying to draw her into the conversation, but she answers in monosyllables and withdraws as soon as possible. Eventually, Finnick gives up. He's not trying to torture her.

Gale's more willing to bond. When he first stops and ties a snare on one of their missions, Finnick lights up. They're supposed to be looking for fellow rebels, but they take an hour and stop to exchange knot lore. They're at roughly the same skill level, but with repertoires that don't completely overlap. As fast as Finnick can show Gale a new knot, Gale can pick it up, and vice versa.

Finnick loves acquiring new skills that he's good at. It makes him feel alive. "I think between the two of us," Finnick brags, "we know everything there is to know about knots."

"We've got it covered," Gale agrees, grinning. Then he shudders at the realization that he's laughing.

"It's all right," Finnick says gently. "You're going to laugh again."

"But they're dead," Gale whispers.

"I know." He puts a hand on Gale's shoulder. "Mags is dead." Without mentioning Gloss by name, he touches Cashmere's arm, including her in the circle of comfort. "But we're not."

Gradually, Finnick starts to realize that Gale needs this sort of mentoring. He's competent, and passionate about resistance, but young, and suffering from a lack of guidance.

Finnick may be used to being looked up to, but mentoring is scary new territory, after every attempt with trainees or tributes turned into a fiasco.

But here, there's no Mags, Rudder, Elspa, or other trainer to fill in for his deficiencies. Gale is full of initiative, but he's smart enough to realize the magnitude of the revolution and hope that someone else is more prepared than he is to handle it. He desperately wants to do something, but he's looking around for someone to tell him what needs to be done.

Well, so is Finnick. But he has Mags' voice in his head. He's been trained for this.

You're the only one who can help him, Mags tells him.

So Finnick advises on survivor's guilt, on keeping your head in a crisis, on setting reasonable expectations for yourself, and that sort of thing. He's better at advice than he is at technique, where he tends to fall back into old academy habits.

"Well, you can outrun me," Gale says on one of their excursions, half defensively, half teasingly, "but at least you had to get out of breath to do it. I can go all day, but there's not much call for sprinting when you're laying traps."

Finnick realizes he's been getting impatient lately, expecting Gale to keep up and looking back at him in exasperation when he doesn't. "No, you're plenty athletic, I'm just not always good at patience. Rudder used to give me a hard time and kick me out if I was getting too competitive with the trainees I was supposed to be helping."

He can see Gale trying to downplay the sting when he turns to Cashmere with a wink. "Was he making you feel bad too?"

"I'm the same way as you," Cashmere tells Gale, "more stamina than speed. But without the excuse of growing up in the woods. They made me do remedial work in sprinting."

"Well, you were right behind him, at least."

"Yeah, but he was slowing down for me to keep up. I watched at our mandatory evaluations before the Games. He was the fastest."

"Brutus was the strongest," Finnick adds. He's letting them think he was taking it easy on her today and not admitting this is the fastest he can go these days before getting winded. He's just tired, and with plenty of reason. He'll get his edge back.

"I couldn't believe how fast you were with the jabberjays-" Gale begins with admiration, but Finnick interrupts him bitterly.

"Yeah, that was stupid. I could have run right into a trap and gotten us both killed. Even without the benefit of hindsight, even if she really had been there, I should have come up with a plan first. Mags would have been disappointed."

You do not let your feelings interfere with the mission. Mags' voice is more insistent in his head now that she's gone. Or maybe he only reaches for it more now, trying to fill the desperate gap where a mentor used to be.

Finnick's only defense is that Mags was newly dead, and he wasn't thinking clearly.

Gale raises his eyebrows. "Wow, that's hardcore. When the hovercraft came from Thirteen to airlift us, half of us ran toward it and the other half ran into hiding, thinking it was from the Capitol. I don't think anybody had a plan."

"You weren't trained," is all Finnick says. And then, "Wait, you were airlifted into Thirteen?"

"Yeah, different groups to different compounds. There were hundreds of us. I ended up in headquarters because I was the one who led the evacuation."

Finnick's eyes narrow. I thought our 'craft had to be destroyed that same night. "How big was was the hovercraft?" he asks casually.

Gale shrugs. "Compared to what? I've only been on the one."

"Were you able to fit everyone in it?" With hundreds of refugees, that will at least narrow it down to "huge" and "not huge."

"No, it was standing room only, and they had to make multiple trips." Gale unfocuses his eyes while he tries to visualize it. "I think it had seats for maybe forty, fifty people? But maybe there was more room in the back that I didn't see."

It could be the same one, then. And it's not exactly a secret, not if hundreds of strangers were allowed to know. But Finnick had been under the impression that District Thirteen was hovercraft-less.

He starts kicking himself, because there were hundreds of people on that 'craft, and he hasn't been talking to them, or he'd have known this by now. What kind of spy is he?

I didn't think I'd have to spy on my own side, he protests.

Call it gathering information, then, but you don't ever get to stop. People die when you take things for granted.

So Finnick starts spying on his own side. He keeps talking to Haymitch and Gale, but he casts a wider net for his attentions. He starts slipping around the compound, using all his training to see what he's not allowed to see and always have a good reason.

And he continues petitioning for a meeting with Plutarch until he finally gets one.

"Communications with District Four are still down," Plutarch says impatiently as soon as Finnick enters his office. "Beetee's recovering. As soon as he's in any kind of condition to work, I'm putting him on hacking communications. I'll get you updates as soon as we have them."

"That's great," Finnick says, sitting down. He doesn't miss the fact that Plutarch has an assistant present, nor that he doesn't look up from the documents he's reviewing. It's petty to care, but it's petty for Plutarch to be pulling this kind of shit on him in the first place. "That's not why I'm here."

That gets him an involuntary glance up. "Then what does bring you here?"

"I want more assignments. I have other skills you're not making use of. For instance, I've copiloted a hovercraft-"

"Military or civilian?" Plutarch returns his attention to the papers in front of him. Maps, Finnick sees. His fingers itch to pull them across the desk. But he does his best upside down.

"Civilian," Finnick admits, frustrated, "but the point is that if I managed to learn that on the sly and convey all that information to Four-"

"I have neither the time nor the resources to teach you how to operate a military 'craft in combat or in adverse weather conditions, nor do I have the need, because I already have all the qualified pilots I need."

"And trains, I memorized the controls-"

"Again," Plutarch says, more impatiently, "if I had no one who had ever operated a train or had any idea how they worked, that would be gold. It's commendable that you kept yourself busy as a victor, but in terms of proficiency, you have one skill that you're very impressive at. It is combat, and that is what I am using you for. You're on standby until the all-clear to go above ground again, and that's final. Enjoy the rest." He sighs in mild exasperation. "I don't have anyone else complaining about not being busy enough."

"No." A younger Finnick would have smirked; this one is just frustrated. "I suppose you don't. Are you interested in any information about what might be going on in Four? With communications down, after all, I am your only source."

Plutarch glances up again at that. "Do you have any information that's not completely out of date? You may not have heard this saying, but when I was in the military, we used to say that no battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy."

I suppose if you were interested, you would have asked me a long time ago.

"Surely it's better than nothing," Finnick protests.

Plutarch shrugs. "Not necessarily. I won't be able to use any of this information until we have contact again, and when that happens, I'll have more up-to-date intelligence from my own people there. Right now, the entire west coast is out of reach for us. I'm sorry if that's causing you distress, but please try to be patient."

Finnick suppresses this urge to grit his teeth as they talk past each other. He's trying to contribute, and Plutarch is treating him like a needy child interrupting his parents. "Do you at least want to know the code phrases the leaders in Four will be using when they contact you?"

Plutarch looks surprised, then his face falls back into a neutral expression. "I have more contacts there than you perhaps realize. I think we'll be able to understand each other just fine."

"I see. So you have absolutely no interest in what the districts might be doing without your help." He rises. "Understood." Pearleye's going to have to take it from here. Nothing he says is getting through.

"Look." Plutarch sets his paper down, folds his hands on the table, and looks steadily across at Finnick. "I've put you in command every time I've sent you out into the field with a team. It's very clear you're good at that. But you have no experience with strategy or organization at the level of an entire army and more than half a country. Please don't try to do my job, and I won't try to do yours."

"Okay." Finnick doesn't say anything else, not because he agrees, but because he realizes he's not going to make any headway. He's not trying to do Plutarch's job, he's trying to get Plutarch to use him for more jobs. But only Mags ever understood that. Even at the academy back home, he was always being told to tone it down.

Well, Mags isn't here, so field command it is.

Without any other outlet for his rapidly reviving energy, Finnick spends as much time guiding refugees and taking out Capitol forces as possible.

He still favors Gale on his team, when he can get him. He takes Gale's advice seriously, even if he sometimes overrides it. But when he turns to Cashmere toward the end of one session and asks her if she has anything she'd like to add, her eyes go wide, like the teacher has called on her and she didn't hear the question, and she freezes. So Finnick hastily redirects attention away from her and apologizes later.

"I didn't mean to put you on the spot. I don't want to force you into anything you're not comfortable doing. I'm just trying to get this right, and I don't know how," he confesses.

"I'll participate if you want me to," she assures him, then adds more hesitantly, "though I'm not sure what I can contribute."

That's all she'll say: "Yes, I'm fine," and "I'll do whatever you tell me."

Everything is wrong, and Finnick doesn't know how to fix it. So he's just making it up as he goes along.

He can't quite decide why she's so afraid to speak up. She was more assertive in her Games, and if anything, this is less dangerous. At least he and Gale aren't planning to kill her in the next few days. And tracking down refugees in the woods and hunting the enemy, she should be in her element, even if her arena happened to be a desert.

Something is wrong, and it's nagging at Finnick. He needs to get to the bottom of this fading into the background act she's so good at.

When they've returned from their mission and are about to enter the compound that night, Finnick halts at the entrance and gestures to Gale. "Go on, we'll be in in a few minutes."

Just outside, in the pitch black, Finnick hands Cashmere a length of cord and aims his flashlight at her hands. "Do the strangle snare."

Perplexed, Cashmere obeys, and holds out the result for him to inspect.

It's flawless, of course. "Did you learn that from Gale?" Maybe she learned all this in her academy, or the training center in the Capitol at either of her Games.

She nods her answer, and then her eyes go wide. "I'm sorry, was I not supposed to? I'm not spying, I promise-"

"I know," Finnick assures her. "Come on, let's go inside and talk." On the way in, he doesn't let her slip behind his elbow into invisibility, but puts his arm around her shoulders.

In their room, he sits cross-legged on the mattress and gestures for Cashmere to join him. She looks at him apprehensively.

Finnick sighs. "You're not in trouble."

She still doesn't relax.

"I'm just...I keep swearing to myself that I'm not going to overlook you, and I keep catching myself doing it anyway. I spent ten years acting, and I know a good actor when I see one. I assume you got training performing for the cameras?"

Cashmere nods once.

"I thought so. I've seen you in dazzle mode, so if you're slipping out of everyone's awareness, you're doing it on purpose."

"I'm not spying," she whispers, but she doesn't sound like she's expecting to be believed.

"No, I know. You're trying to stay alive. You obviously don't feel safe here, no matter what I've said. And that's understandable, I suppose. The others haven't warmed up to you, and I can see why you might feel nervous until they do. I promise I'm working on them, but it's going to take time."

"I understand," Cashmere says, and again, the right words, but ringing hollow. He's starting to get the impression that she's telling him what she thinks he wants to hear. Well, isn't that what he always does?

"But I want you to feel safe with me, at least. If you don't feel like making conversation at a time like this, I can understand that, but I want you to know you don't have to tiptoe around me. I'm not going to abandon you for having opinions. Look at Katniss: she did nothing but insult and threaten me in the arena, and nothing but ignore me since we arrived here, and she has my unconditional support. The same goes for you. You can argue, demand explanations, make requests, speak up, whatever. You don't have to be invisible all the time. There won't be any consequences."

Cashmere is watching his facial expressions like her life depends on it. "I know I have your protection," she tells him.

"But..." Finnick prompts when she doesn't say anything more.

"And I'll do whatever you tell me, but if you want something, you have to tell me. I'm not very good at reading between the lines. I'm not very bright." She's still studying his face, hoping she's saying the right thing.

Finnick laughs involuntarily. "You keep saying that like if I hear it enough times, I'll believe it over the evidence of my own eyes." He shrugs. "Maybe I'm just pushing too fast. I know you're safe with me, but you need time to believe it."

"No, I do," Cashmere insists. "You've always been kind to me."

"You don't act like you do," Finnick says, but then, neither did Annie, he reminds himself. It took time. Cashmere's just insisting that she does to placate him, because if she admits she doesn't feel safe with him, he'll be offended and abandon her. "It's all right," Finnick says, with a resigned sigh. "You don't have to, not yet. I just wanted to tell you you don't have to do the dance of everything I want and nothing I don't suggest."

"But I need someone to tell me what to do," Cashmere explains. "I don't have any ideas of my own." She hesitates as something occurs to her. "Or-"

"Go on," Finnick says, when it seems like she's waiting for permission to say something she's not sure of.

Here she's really watching him more intently than ever. Every word is like a tread onto thinner and thinner ice. "The last time...you told me I didn't have to pretend to feel anything."

When he had sex with her under Snow's orders, Finnick remembers. He was just doing his best to make that night as easy on her as possible, but who knows if he succeeded.

"And I thought...but maybe you only meant for that one night? I can pretend if you want me to. I did have acting lessons," she offers brightly. "Is that what you were asking?"

The deeper Finnick gets into this conversation, the more at a loss he feels. "No, I definitely meant I didn't want you acting here. With me. At all. That's why I don't want you hiding everything you think and feel to try to please me."

"But I..." Cashmere's voice trails off. "I can act," she says in the most lively voice he's heard her use since her last Flickerman interview. Even her body relaxes, like she's relieved to have finally figured out what he wants.

"No," Finnick presses, "tell me what you're thinking. You won't get in trouble. 'But I-'"

She waits, to be sure he really means it, then she ventures, "Everyone thinks they want to know the real me. But you saw the real me that night, the one that cries and has nothing to say. If that's not what you want after all, I have lots of experience with other personas."

Again, Finnick laughs darkly. "Yes, I know the feeling. The ones with romantic delusions, they think they're the only ones who can understand your inner self, and you've finally found your soul mate in them." He almost preferred the ones who paid for sex and took what they wanted. At least that was honest at some level. "I'm not going to do that to you, sweetheart." He hears the endearment fall instinctively fall from his lips and then wonders if it brings back as many painful echoes for her as it sometimes does for him...but he had been thinking of that night they shared, when they craved even the shadow of affection from each other.

"But you said you didn't want me to fade into the background, and I want you to know I don't have to."

This is hard to figure out. But maybe easier if he thinks of it as Annie hiding in her closet. "If that's what makes you feel safe, then that's what you need to do until you feel comfortable doing something else." The opposite of Annie, really. Annie will scream at you not to touch her, and Cashmere longs for touch but won't say anything.

Cashmere nods slowly. "And if you do want something else from me, all you have to do is tell me."

Finnick promises, if only to let her know that he won't spring surprises on her. "The same goes for you, if you want anything, or if you have any questions, ask away. Privately in here, if you don't feel comfortable around anyone else."

What he'd thought was a reassuring end to the conversation results in Cashmere staring at him like he's grown a second head. "Ask...questions?" she echoes in utter disbelief.

Finnick's frustrated again, mostly with himself. "Yes! You're not a prisoner, and I keep telling you that I don't believe you're a spy."

"I know that, but you wouldn't expect to ask questions at the academy," Cashmere says as though that's an entirely reasonable thing to say.

Now it's Finnick's turn to be flabbergasted. "Not ask questions at the academy?! Mags adopted me because I was asking more questions than the rest of the class could keep up with. I started coming over to her house after work to ask more questions, and next thing I knew I was living with her and quizzing her non-stop. What, they just drilled you all the time and didn't cover arena strategy or anything?" He realizes, as soon as he hears the words, that they sound arrogant, but it's too late to call them back.

Cashmere's frowning in confusion. "They sat us down and made us watch videos and attend lectures, but...they taught us what they expected us to know. Any time a student asks a question, you're supposed to tell them that the trainers know what they're doing, and the program has turned out more victors than any district except-" Now it's her turn to hesitate, realizing her own words could be taken as a barb against Four, the Career district in third place. She changes tacks quickly. "I just figured you were telling me everything you want me to know."

They look at each other from a gulf of understanding that they now realize is vaster than either of them could have imagined.

"Well, I certainly don't want you to pretend to be interested in something just to please me." He knows how many years they both spent doing just that for their lovers. "But if you don't understand something, or you're curious, I want you to feel free to ask. You won't be punished for asking, even if it ends up being something I can't answer.

"But right now, I want to hear more about this academy of yours where you weren't allowed to ask questions."

Ten minutes later, he has a much better understanding of the behavior that's been driving him crazy. Her silence; her accumulation of knowledge by observation only, without asking for clarification; her conviction that she's not that bright. Her fear of opening her mouth is only partly fear that Plutarch will change his mind and take her prisoner. It's even more the product of a childhood spent being scolded for speaking up, which her trainers called disrespect.

Oh, help, Mags, what do I do? This would be another one of your damaged children. Finnick covers his mouth with his hands to hide his dismay. He always knew Cashmere had it rough, but he'd never thought it was more than the pain of navigating life as a victor with no mentor to warn her about Snow, and that was already the worst thing he could imagine.

"The rules here are different?" Cashmere ventures, when she's finished.

Mutely, Finnick nods.

"Then I'll follow any rule that you tell me about. I'm not good at figuring out what the expectations are on my own, but I'll try." She swallows a couple of times and goes bravely against every instinct she has to ask, "What are the rules here?"

They told you you weren't bright, but you were set up to fail.

Finnick holds out his arms. "Come here." Cashmere slides gladly onto his lap, and for a moment it's just like that night in the Capitol, except without Snow pulling the strings, and without the need to leave her to her own devices because she doesn't have any way to ask for help. Now he has all the time in the world.

"The first rule," he tells her, "is that if you ever don't understand anything, you ask me, without fear. I realize that may take a lot of effort, if you were always punished for it. You can, I don't know, tell me what you don't understand and I'll explain. You don't have to phrase it as a question if you're not comfortable doing that. Whatever's easier for you, really."

Cashmere nods, and for the first time, it doesn't feel like she's going through the motions. "Okay."

"The second rule is that you don't get punished for breaking the rules. With a background as different as yours, I don't think I can guess every question you'll have and explain it in advance. I'll do my best, but there will always be gaps. Don't be afraid of the gaps. If something goes wrong, tell me what you were thinking, and we'll make it right."

"Like me and Gloss?" she asks.

"You didn't punish him if he got something wrong?"

She shakes her head. "I always tried to help him follow the rules, and do the assignments. I could never have punished him."

Oh, good. Somewhere to start. "Exactly like that, then. Here to help you, never to hurt you."

"That sounds nice." It's obviously Cashmere's first time on the receiving end of a relationship like this, and Finnick hopes he can live up to it.

But it's got him wishing he'd paid more attention to the other Career victors. He does know he wasn't the only one with a list, even if Snow went to great lengths to make everyone think it was just them, but he can't remember much about Gloss specifically, no matter how he racks his brains.

Louder than Cashmere, he recalls. And drank more, or, like Finnick, pretended to. It's so damn hard to read these Careers who've always kept themselves alive on the strength of their performances. Not broken by the arena, so Snow must have done something to him. Chiseled good looks and a lot of sponsors, so logically...

Finnick's got the sense that Cashmere was so focused on being the older sister, setting a good example, living up to expectations, that this is her first time letting her guard down. His heart breaks for the wedge Snow drove between sister and brother, close as they were. Finnick can't bring back the dead, but he can give her a relationship where someone looks out for her, and he wants to give her a tiny piece of her brother back, if only in memory.

"I'm sorry you never felt safe telling your brother about your life as a victor," Finnick begins. "My guess is that he would have understood, and that he didn't want to disappoint you-"

"No!" Cashmere shouts. "No, Gloss was smarter than me, he wouldn't have made that mistake. He was well-behaved—okay, he got in trouble sometimes at the academy, but he was just a kid then, and he always wanted to follow the rules. He wouldn't have done anything wrong."

Finnick shakes his head sorrowfully. "You weren't punished for anything you did wrong. You were punished for being successful. I told you, Snow tried to crush all of us who weren't already crushed."

"You didn't know him!" Her voice shakes with fury. "I was his older sister, I would have known!"

Cashmere is crying from her rage, and Finnick bites his tongue on further argument. He's trying to tell her she wasn't alone, didn't disappoint anyone, and it wasn't her fault, but she's committed to her denial, because the alternative is worse. The alternative is that her brother suffered too, that she didn't see, and that she failed to warn him or help him. And he can see where she'd rather believe it was just her.

"Okay, okay," he soothes. "You're right, I didn't know him. I'm sorry. Ssh, sweetheart, it's okay. I won't bring it up again."

Finnick is convinced he's right, but Gloss is dead, and there's nothing to be gained now by digging into his secrets. With a sigh, Finnick lets it go and wishes the other man some peace. Given Finnick's few memories of him and Cashmere's admission that he was more outspoken, he probably had a harder time with his clients than either Finnick or Cashmere, the compliant prostitutes.

Compliant when it's just her, maybe, but he's impressed by the way she leapt to her brother's defense. She won't stand up for herself, but she will stand up for him.

"You were a wonderful sister," Finnick says, patting her shoulder until her sobbing subsides. "He was lucky to have you."

"I always tried to help him," Cashmere tells Finnick, sniffling. "He had a harder time at the academy than I did, but they let us train together, and we helped each other. We were both lucky: a lot of students were trained alone, and we were supposed to be. They didn't want the kids distracting each other or giving each other ideas about disobedience. But because I was so dedicated, they decided to try an experiment to see if we could encourage each other instead. They didn't tell us this at the time, of course. They just said they'd separate us if we misbehaved. But later I worked at the academy, and they explained more."

Finnick remembers the way Rudder used peer pressure to his advantage, and wonders if Gloss would have made it through the program at all without Cashmere.

For the thousandth time, Finnick silently gives thanks for Mags. He doesn't know if he can be Mags, but all he can do is try.