It all happened so fast.
The two of them stared at each other, unable to fully comprehend what their ears had just heard.
All Cato knew was that suddenly they were being dragged out of each other's arms by Peacekeepers and loaded onto a hovercraft, and they were taking Finch away from him and her eyes were wide with fright. A glass door slammed shut between the two of them and then people in white coats were strapping her down onto a table and jamming needles into her veins.
"Finch!" he roared, pounding his fists against the glass. "Finch!"
"It's ok, son," said a voice behind him and he whirled around to find a middle-aged man in a Peacekeeper uniform watching him sympathetically. "They're just giving her some blood and some fluids."
Cato remembered the blood on her pants and her shirt. "What happened to her?" he demanded. "And why did we both get to live?" He was seized with a sudden terror that they had found out about her spying on the gamemakers, or that Heavensbee had turned them in for the map she had drawn for him, and now they were being dragged off to be imprisoned or executed.
"It's the Third Quarter Quell twist," the Peacekeeper explained, answering his second question first. Cato sighed with relief as the man filled him in on the details and terms of the twist. "And the blood?" he asked when the man had finished.
"She got cut defending you from the boy from 10. While you were unconscious. On her left side, by her ribs. It was pretty bad. It was too wide to close up, so she just kept losing blood. Slowly, but it started to really affect her after a couple of days. And then it got infected."
"She got that for me?" Cato asked, turning back to the glass to stare at her in wonder. He wanted to sob and he wanted to kiss her and he wanted to shake her for taking such a stupid risk.
But instead, he just shook his head. "Sometimes I think she's got to be the dumbest smart person I know."
xxxxxxxxxx
They wouldn't let them see each other, they were told, until their interviews the next night, so that all of Panem could witness their romantic reunion on live television. But she was sneaky and he was stubborn, and she slipped out of recovery late in the evening. Cato, who had expected nothing less from her, was waiting just outside the doors to the medical wing, and he caught her as she threw herself into his arms.
"What were you thinking?!" he cried as he buried his face in her hair. "With that stunt with 10! You could have been killed!"
"But I wasn't," she said breathlessly. "And anyway, if I hadn't done anything you would have been killed."
"God. Dammit." The voice was unfamiliar, and they broke off from each other to see a woman in a skintight pencil skirt and sky high heels, who was holding a clipboard. "Who was supposed to be watching her to make sure she didn't escape?" she called over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry ma'am," said a Peacekeeper gruffly. Cato almost laughed out loud. It was the same man from the hovercraft. "I'll escort her back to recovery."
But the woman sighed with exasperation. "Oh forget it, the damage is already done. They've seen each other. But you two," she said turning to point accusingly, "had better put on a good show tomorrow night. Make the audience think this little encounter never happened." Then, with a click of her heels she spun around and walked away
Cato looked over at the Peacekeeper, who gave him a smirk and a nod. "Come on," he said, grabbing Finch by the hand.
xxxxxxxx
"What the-?" Brutus said as they entered the District 2 apartment. "You two aren't supposed to-"
"They already know we saw each other," Cato cut him off, still dragging Finch by the hand. "It's fine. No one's gonna come looking for her." And then he slammed his bedroom door, shutting out the world so it was just the two of them.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her fiercely.
"Cato," she said panted against his mouth, her hands on his chest.
"Finch," he moaned, pressing his lips to hers over and over.
"Cato," she gasped again.
"Finch."
"No, Cato," she said, pushing on his chest and tearing her mouth away from his. "Too much, it's too much. Slow down." She was trying to catch her breath.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, letting go of her and stepping back. "Oh god, I forgot about your cut! Did I hurt it?"
"No, it's fine. Just a little sore. But I…" she grew shy all of a sudden. "I've never...you know. And I don't know if I'm ready...yet. I'm sorry."
He blinked in surprise. "Don't be sorry. We don't have to do that. That's not why I brought you here."
"Oh. It's not?" She sounded a little disappointed.
"No! I mean, don't get me wrong, I would in a heartbeat if you wanted to, but, no, no, that's not why I brought you here. I just want to be with you."
"Oh. Ok." She was smiling now. "But I didn't really get to shower like you did. I mean they washed my hair and gave me a sponge bath but I still feel dirty. And I hate this," she tugged at the paper gown they'd put her in and then turned toward the door. "I'll just go up to my room real fast and-"
"No, don't go!" he said desperately, grasping her hand and tugging. "Just shower here." Finch gave him a surprised look and he seemed to catch himself. "Unless you'd rather go back to your room. I'm sorry. Is this too much? Am I making you uncomfortable?"
Finch wanted to laugh. He was trying so hard to rein himself in. "It's fine," she said, placing a hand on his arm and standing on tiptoe to kiss him. "You're not making me uncomfortable. I want to be with you too. I'll shower here. I just don't have anything to wear."
"I can help you with that," he whispered as the corner of his mouth quirked up.
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from his bathroom with clean skin and wet hair, clad in a pair of his boxers and one of his t shirts.
"I used your toothbrush," she said shyly. "I hope you don't mind. And your deodorant." She sniffed herself. "I smell like a man."
"Want some cologne too?" he teased. She looked sheepish. "I'm kidding," he said, gazing at her tenderly. "Of course I don't mind. Now come here." He lifted the blankets of his bed so she could slide in beside him.
"Can I see it?" he asked once she was settled.
"My cut?"
"Yeah."
She pulled her shirt up to expose her ribs and lifted her bandage. Cato's heart seized up at the sight of the wound, which, though now free of infection and stitched up, looked deep and painful.
"Oh Finch…" he breathed, tracing it gently with his fingers. He slid himself down the bed and replaced his fingers with his lips. She shivered as he trailed featherlight kisses from one end of the wound to the other, stroking the skin beneath it with his thumb.
When he was finished, he replaced the bandage and pulled the hem of the shirt back down. "I love you," he whispered as he looked up at her.
"I love you too," she whispered back, placing her hand on his cheek. There were tears in her eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"You almost killed yourself for me. And for nothing, because the twist….What if we'd been five minutes earlier?" she wailed. "You could have been dead!"
"Shh, it's ok," he soothed, sliding back up to take her in his arms. "It's ok. Because we weren't five minutes earlier. We're here. Now. And that's all that matters."
They didn't speak anymore that night. Instead, they kissed every inch of each other's faces, softly and slowly. When they were finished Finch rested her head on Cato's chest, where she could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong and comforting. And as she fell asleep, she breathed in the smell of iron.
xxxxxxxxxx
"Young lady!" Prince exclaimed, when she pattered into her apartment the next morning, barefoot and wearing Cato's boxers and shirt. "What has come over you? What will people think if it gets out that you're wearing his underwear?"
"Oh I'm sorry," she said irritably. "Would you rather I have left these downstairs and come back up here naked? Because I can arrange for that." And she started to pull up on the hem of the t shirt, exposing her stomach.
Prince gasped and sputtered and flounced off.
She turned to look at Rush, who was eyeing her thoughtfully. "Are you gonna lecture me too?" she asked as she settled the shirt back around her thighs
"No. You're a big girl. You do what you want."
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm just wondering how you did it."
Finch frowned. "Did what? Won the games?"
"No. Got that boy to fall head over heels in love with you. Don't get me wrong. You're a cute enough little thing. But he was known for being a manwhore back in 2. And the more primped and processed the girl, the better. I wouldn't exactly have pegged you as his type."
"Yeah well it turns out that the way to his heart is through his brain." Rush looked surprised, and she shrugged. "Who knew, right?"
xxxxxxxxxx
"Alright," said Fascinia as she finished adjusting the folds of Finch's gown for the umpteenth time. "Remember to act like you haven't seen him since the hovercraft took you out of the arena. You should run across the stage and fling yourself at him."
Finch looked down at her simple, white, one-shouldered gown, which was gathered at her waist with a gold belt. It was beautiful, and it made her feel like a Greek goddess, but it wasn't exactly conducive to running and flinging oneself around.
So when they called her out, she made her way slowly and gracefully to the center stage where Cato stood waiting for her, lifting her skirt just a bit, and stopped when she was a few inches from him, smiling up at him shyly.
"Took you long enough," he whispered teasingly.
"I didn't want to fall on my face like I did at my reaping."
He threw his head back and let out a short bark of a laugh, but when he looked back down at her, his expression was so tender it shocked the breath from her lungs. He took her face in his hands and she grasped the lapels of his jacket and they smiled into each other's mouths as they kissed.
The crowd went wild.
Caesar eventually got the two of them seated and convinced the audience to quiet down.
"Soooo you two….tell us. How did this whole thing between you come about?"
Cato, who had trained for years to take his place as a Victor, quickly realized that Finch was overwhelmed by the attention, and delved into the story of how her father had saved Brutus's life. "I didn't want to help her at first, but Brutus insisted," he finished up.
"And Finch, did you know that he was in love with you?"
Just look at me Cato had said to her that morning before they'd separated. If you get nervous, just look at me. Pretend it's just you and me and Caesar.
"No," she said, smiling up at Cato, who had laid an arm comfortingly behind her shoulders. "I thought we were just friends, and then we had an argument a few days before the games, and after that I was terrified of him."
"And what was the argument about?"
"That's between me and Cato," she said slyly, working her way into the interview. But the truth was she didn't really know the answer herself. She didn't understand what had prompted him to treat her so badly just before the scoring sessions.
When Caesar asked why he didn't run off to find Finch and ally himself with her right away, Cato explained that he figured if he stayed with the Careers he could keep them away from her, just like Peeta had tried to do with Katniss.
"And at your pre-games interview," Caesar said, "you didn't let on at all how you felt about her. In fact, if I recall, you made yourself sound like a complete cad."
Cato laughed. "Well I didn't want to bring attention to her. You know, paint a target on her back."
The two of them had not been given the opportunity to review footage or commentary of the games, and they'd been so busy reveling in each other's presence the night before that they hadn't really discussed their individual experiences in the arena, so much of it came as a surprise to them, and their reactions were genuine.
For Cato it was especially uncomfortable, and he felt wave after wave of self-loathing and guilt wash over him as the days played out onscreen. In the arena he'd been so worried about Finch that it had been easy to desensitize himself from his own violence and the lives he'd taken. And then he'd been able to further push off dealing with it in the joy of his reunion with her the night before. But now...now he had no choice but to watch himself shed the blood of other children and he hated himself. Even worse, what did Finch think of him? How did she feel about this? He could hear her gasping softly beside him in horror as she watched the bloodbath, and when he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, her skin was a sickly green shade.
He wanted to put his hands over his ears and squeeze his eyes shut. He wanted to be anywhere but here. But they could do nothing but sit there and watch, and, though she could fall apart on live tv if she chose, as a Career, Cato had to hold it together, to act as though this all fazed him very little.
He focused on trying to comfort Finch, slipping his hand between her body and the loveseat so he could rub soothing circles over her back, murmuring softly into her hair so that the mic couldn't pick it up that he was sorry, that he wouldn't have done it if he'd felt like he had a choice but that the thought of her dying in that arena had propelled him forward.
The audience, unable to hear what he was saying, but enamored with watching a brutal career fuss over an innocent girl who had escaped the arena without technically killing anyone, oohed and aahed.
When they showed him rolling his eyes as Glimmer cuddled up to him his heart dropped into his stomach, and again, he worried about what Finch would think. But it was obvious that he was only tolerating the girl from 1's attentions, and Finch squeezed his hand to let him know it was ok, she understood.
He fell in love with her all over again when he watched her sprint across the clearing at the sound of his agony, but he tensed and swallowed hard during the part where she encountered 10 as he lay unconscious, and then he facepalmed when she hit him in the crotch with her knife. "Your follow-through, Finch," he scolded quietly. "Or should I say lack thereof."
"I know, I know," she said, rolling her eyes.
When he pulled out the lock of her hair, Finch completely forgot about the audience. "Where did you get that?" she asked, turning to him in surprise.
Cato looked down at his lap. "That day, I think it was the second one, when I cut your hair off with my knife and then Brutus made me apologize the next time. I threw it in the corner. I remembered it the morning of the games." He was rewarded with an impulsive kiss on the lips that had the audience cheering madly, which, in turn, made her pull back immediately as she remembered where she was, her cheeks bright red.
Finch gasped when they showed his reaction to the explosion at the Career camp.
"I thought you'd accidentally set it off and killed yourself," he whispered, squeezing her hand.
But it was her turn to squeeze his hand when they showed Clove's death, and she could tell that it was shame that made him hang his head as he sat beside her on the loveseat, shame that he had abandoned Clove when she needed him.
By the time they'd moved on to Thresh's death, the two of them had switched roles entirely, with Finch doing her best to prop Cato up as subtly as possible while he struggled to keep up his facade as the ruthless Career. He had not been sorry at the time of Thresh's death, but as he watched himself slice open the boy's abdomen, he fought to bite back the cry of anguish that rose up from his throat and threatened to burst through his closed lips. It was Finch's hand in his, her fingers running back and forth across his palm, that kept him in check.
She squeezed his hand reassuringly when they showed his conversation with Peeta. "That was very compassionate," she whispered. "What you did for Peeta at the end."
He snorted. "Not really, considering I'm the one who injured him in the first place."
To the audience it sounded detached and dismissive, but Finch could hear the guilt behind it, and she was beginning to realize just how much of a toll the games had taken on his emotional well-being.
He was momentarily distracted from his pain by the scene of his and Finch's encounter in the arena, just before the announcement declaring them both victors, but as soon as the interview was over and he was offstage, he ran to the nearest bathroom and knelt over the toilet, trying to expel his guilt and self-loathing from his body. Nothing came up, but he continued to shudder and heave over the bowl until he felt her cool hand on his forehead and she tugged his shoulders, urging him to sit beside her on the marble floor, their backs against the wall.
"Eight people," he said, his voice shaky, his head in his hands. "I killed eight people. And Clove. It's my fault!" A single sob escaped from his heaving chest, and he brought his fist up to his mouth, closing his teeth over his knuckles until he drew blood.
When Finch pried his hand from his mouth and drew his head down into her lap he lost it and sobbed into the fabric of her gown, his face pressed against her thigh. She put an arm over his shoulders and hovered over him, running her fingers through his hair and pressing kisses to the back of his head. "I love you," she whispered over and over again until his sobs died down, first to whimpers and then to hiccups. "I love you."
Eventually, he pushed himself up off of her and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his jacket.
"Come on," Finch said, standing and helping him up off the floor. "Let's get you home where I can take care of you."
As they left the bathroom, Prince hurried over to them, his face stern with disapproval. "You two were in there for almost an hour! Do you have any idea how impr-"
"Shut the fuck up Prince!" Finch cut him off, her eyes molten with anger. "Make yourself useful for once and just get us home. Jesus Christ!"
Her tone was so fierce it pulled the escort up short, and he stared at her in shock for a few seconds.
"Now!" she demanded, and he scampered off to tell their driver to pull around to pick them up.
And then she turned back to Cato and the two of them huddled together just inside the back door, completely oblivious to the presence of Plutarch Heavensbee, who stood at the end of the hallway, studying them thoughtfully with his head cocked to one side.