"I'm sure most people don't want you to talk about it." Her words are long and sibilant, and her eyes are a searing bright blue—probably enhanced, possibly replaced.

He knows her—she's a client, her name is Mara or Marlena or something of the kind, he can't remember that but he remembers her eyes, and the depthless, light-sucking liner that she paints around them. He hasn't seen her in years, but she's here now, she's crawling across the bed towards him. "But I want to hear. I want you to tell me every—gory—detail."

She comes closer, and he hasn't moved—maybe he can't move, maybe he's bound, but he can't feel the ropes. Her body is starting to stretch in the same way as her syllables, her torso is lengthening and so is her neck, stretching into a the flattened wedge of a snake's head, long tongue flicking between her teeth.

"Tell me how it felt when you killed them." Her jaw begins to unhinge but he can still hear her voice, her mouth is closing around his legs and dragging him in. "Did it feel good?"

He wakes up because someone is shaking him, someone gets their hands on him in reality before the woman in his dream swallows him whole, and he comes back to consciousness gasping like he's breaking the surface, body surging up like he's not sure he can keep himself there.

His prep team scatters like birds, dramatic collar fins and long fake lashes fluttering as they retreat from the violence of that single movement—it's only these kinds of brief moments that people seem to remember that what he's capable of, but even that deference doesn't last long. They're crowding back around him quickly, his stylist Saffron and of her two assistants pulling at the covers, pulling at him—still aflutter, more worked up than he's seen them in some time. It's confusing, especially when he's only half-awake, shielding himself from them with an arm over his face out of pure reflex, like they might flock and peck his eyes out. "What the—"

"Finnick, we looked everywhere—"

"—no idea where you were, thought you'd gone missing—"

"Just everywhere, you didn't tell us—"

"What?" he repeats with more feeling this time, more awake at this point but no less confused. This isn't his bed, he knows that, these aren't his sheets, but this is hardly the first time he's woken up as a strange bedroom, he just isn't usually woken up like this, is all. "What time is it?"

"It is four in the afternoon." Saffron cuts through the buzz and chatter with a scandalized, imperious declaration, hand pressed to her elaborately shaped chest.

Well.

That explains it.

"We had no idea where you were, Finnick!" she continues, the back of her hand pressing to her forehead now—it's like an ages-old silent movie, but he knows her well enough to read the real distress underneath it. "You've missed two appointments!"

"Shit." Bleary and half-conscious as he still is, he now understands the need for panic. When is the last time he overslept, when is the last time he was allowed? "Why didn't you just activate my tracker?

"Because then it's a security issue," Saffron hisses, leaning in. "Do you want the entire Capitol informed that you've gone missing?"

"No. No, of course not," he says muzzily, throwing the covers off and getting out of bed finally, he's got a useless sense of hurry now that is not going to change those missed appointments. There's another pair of shoes by the bed, and a shirt thrown over the chair that isn't his, and that's what jogs his memory finally—he remembers falling into bed with Haymitch, saying something to the man that made him laugh and drag him in-

Right on cue, Haymitch's voice breaks in from the next room. "—well I am so sorry, please, keep your petticoats on. What are the charges, kidnapping, or shoplifting?"

"Fuck you!" Finnick raises his voice to yell that into the kitchen, but it's perfunctory at best, he's more concerned with locating all of his clothes right now. It's a more difficult task than it should be—he really needs to remember more about what happened last night—and the assistants scurrying around him trying to do the same are really more hindrance than help, it's a relatively small room and he ends up tripping over skirts and coattails.

Haymitch appears in the doorway but doesn't come in, seeming to sense that the clusterfuck going on in his bedroom is something he doesn't want to get involved in. "Kid, would you call off your painted parakeet here?" It's clear he's referring to Calliope, the missing third assistant who shows up after another second as well, hovering anxiously over Haymitch's shoulder. "I don't have enough alcohol in my whole goddamn apartment to for this shit."

"All right, everybody just—calm down." He's buckling his belt but he's still shirtless—what difference does it make, everyone in this room has already seen him naked. Hell, everyone in the Capitol has seen him naked, just not all of them at close quarters. "Saffron—guys—can you wait outside? I swear I will be out in five minutes. Ten minutes, tops."

A chorus of complaints spanning two octaves bursts and overflows into the small space, Haymitch looks about ready to put his hands over his ears-but Saffron silences it again with a raise of her hand, pointing her team to the door before she ever says it aloud. "Five minutes, Finnick." She points to him directly, as if pinning that instruction straight to his chest.

They file out again like a technicolor, patterned parade, through the bottleneck that Haymitch has made of the door—he doesn't move, doesn't even angle himself away to let them through, though there's a sarcastic wave at the last moment to the assistant who'd been harassing him.

He turns back, and looks at Finnick. Just looks, and it's familiar, but at the moment he can't place it. Maybe it's something from last night, but for whatever reason those steady gray eyes are raising a prickle on the back of his neck. He pretends to be occupied lacing up his boot—he's only found one so far—but he can't help glancing back. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Oh believe me, kid, I tried," Haymitch says wryly. "I would have had better luck waking the dead." The back of his knuckles rubs against the rough stubble at his jaw. "Besides, you seemed like you needed the sleep."

He doesn't have an answer for that, because it's true, but it also doesn't matter. When has he not needed the sleep?

He downshifts into something safe, he lets his eyes linger and he smiles. "You have a good time?"

"The fuck do you think?" Haymitch growls, and that makes Finnick grin despite the rush and the stress, makes him remember briefly what it felt like to fish for a compliment before compliments were the only conversation he ever had, before they'd become a way for people to put him in the red and tell him that he owed them.

"I can try to get you your money back if you want," he teases—probably not something he should be joking about, but that's what he does with everything he shouldn't be joking about, it's the best way he's worked out to act like it doesn't affect you at all. "Call up President Snow's office. Hey, throw me my shoe," he says as he spots it over by the door, but that only gets him a skeptical sound in response.

"Get it yourself, lazy bastard," Haymitch tells him, and so he does—walks past his shoe altogether first to kiss Haymitch on the mouth, hard enough that the man has to stand up straight and put both feet solidly on the ground, kisses him like he's trying to steal his breath and stop his heart.

He feels much better today. He feels like himself, and maybe someone should have warned Haymitch about that.

"Well, I had a good time." Quiet, playful reproach, and he lingers for a moment with a smile chasing around the corner of his mouth—and then he's gone again, pulling back to slide his foot into his left shoe, kicking his heel into it before he moves past Haymitch in the door. "If I die because I missed a couple of appointments—totally worth it." He turns back for a moment to grin at Haymitch but he doesn't stop moving—he's pretty sure his five minutes are long up, and he can't afford to keep people waiting.