Does it look like a disfigured head, to you? I could almost see that, there.
(He thinks, I should spare you the pain and just kill you
He thinks, We don't deserve this)
or, the final days of a restless respite.
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Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Underage Categories: F/F F/M M/M Multi Fandoms: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins Hunger Games Series - All Media Types The Hunger Games (Movies) Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair Mags & Finnick Odair Annie Cresta & Mags Annie Cresta & Finnick Odair Characters: Annie Cresta Finnick Odair Mags (Hunger Games) Original Characters President Snow Coriolanus Snow Johanna Mason Haymitch Abernathy Morphlings (Hunger Games) Egeria (Hunger Games) Chaff (Hunger Games) Cecelia (Hunger Games) Woof (Hunger Games) Seeder (Hunger Games) Cresta Family Additional Tags: Trauma Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD Psychological Trauma Sexual Content Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence Hurt/Comfort Canon-Typical Violence Pre-Canon Canon Compliant (sort of) (up to a point) Forced Prostitution 70th Hunger Games Post-70th Hunger Games Odesta Odesta (Relationship) Annie's games Suicidal Thoughts Implied/Referenced Suicide Drug Use Non-Consensual Drug Use Depression Suicide Attempt Self-Harm Implied/Referenced Self-Harm Odesta - Relationship - Freeform Sadism Sex Slavery District 4 Finnick Odair-Centric Language: English Series: Part 1 of the The Hazards of Love series Stats: Published: 2015-06-29 Completed: 2015-10-05 Words: 70082 Chapters: 24/24 Comments: 57 Kudos: 78 Bookmarks: 6 Hits: 1678
Ghosts (I'm still in mourning) oh_so_loverly
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Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven
Summary:
Does it look like a disfigured head, to you? I could almost see that, there.
(He thinks, I should spare you the pain and just kill you
He thinks, We don't deserve this)
or, the final days of a restless respite.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"So, how is she?" Finnick breaks the silence that lingers in his beloved mother figure's home. He does not look up from his cup of sweet tea; he already knows the expression Mags is likely wearing. "Is it bad?"
No words respond, and Finnick's eyes glance up, assessing his mentor. Her eyes are narrowed, but lips are only slightly set in a frown. It has been two days, and sixteen hours, since Mr. Cresta's death. He has heard wailing, heard yelling, and all sorts of clattering and shatterings; and he should have checked, by now, he should have tried to help. He has not. He tells himself he will not. President Snow has punished Annie Cresta. Finnick cannot fix that, nor does he want to intervene. Either she learns her place, or… well, she does not.
"Malad." Mags coughs, sipping her drink and patting her chest. She goes no further than shrugging.
Finnick lets out a slight huff, hopes it sounds irritated. In reality, he is concerned. (He is concerned, because he cares. And he hates that about himself, because what good does caring ever do?) Mags smacks him and he starts, realizing in his short contemplation that he has missed a few minutes tick by. Funny, how time works.
"Go?" the raised brow is a challenge and Finnick groans in retort. "Family no pa ase, cher. Know this."
"I've got all the family I need, Mags," he gives a wink and pushes his chair away, standing. The charm falls on ears that hear past his words, and when he continues, Mags seems unsurprised; "I'm not going there."
He heads to Mags' ice-box, pulling grapes and cheese out, beginning to make himself up a plate of snacks. A rap on the front door comes just as Finnick is setting back in his chair. Mags raises her brow at the younger man. Finnick smiles back serenely, and Mags clucks her tongue before heading towards the door. She ruffles his hair for good measure as she passes him.
"Got a visitor?" Finnick turns and freezes, with his mouth stuffed full of food. He gulps sharply, because Bo Cresta is in the doorway, looking just at surprised (and annoyed) as Finnick feels. "Cresta."
"Odair." Bo nods, before turning back to Mags. "Ap sèten? It's not too much to ask?"
In reply, Mags pats Bo's cheek gently, giving Finnick that look. Raised brow on one eye, other narrowed, she asks, without words, 'What're you waitin' for, boy?'
Finnick takes another thoughtful bite of cheese, before brushing his hands off over the table. Mags smacks him on the back, and he uses a napkin like a proper boy trying to avoid ants.
And he is brought back five years, when he brushed his hands off after eating sloppily.
'Want to clean my house, boy?'
'No, ma'am.'
'Don't make mess, then.'
'Yes, ma'am-'
'I look like ma'am?'
'Er, no, ma-'
'Hm?'
'No, Mags. Better?'
'No.'
'No?'
'No, you mess up my kitchen.'
'Sorry-'
'No, sorry. Yes, clean.'
'Yes, ma'am-' Finnick cracks up when she smacks him yet again. 'Mags.'
Mags does not need to ask, does not need to prompt for Finnick to follow her, not this time.
Bo gives Finnick a curious glance, but says nothing as the latter accompanies them out of the house. The trio heads out into the hot glare of noontime. The sun sticks clothing to his back, but Finnick pulls his sleeves down to his wrists. He nods to, but otherwise avoids fellow Victors out and about. Bo puts on a happy face, Finnick notices, brushes off questions from Daran and others, about Annie, with, 'She's managing,' or,'Dealing as best she can.' Finnick follows Bo Cresta's lead. When they enter the Cresta's house, Aslin greets Bo with a tight hug. Aslin glares at Finnick, but the latter is distracted, because in the sitting room just beyond the foyer, to the right of the foot of the stairs, Mr. Jobe Cresta's body is lying in dèy. It is an old custom, one Finnick has never witnessed firsthand, and the sight of the body makes him nauseous. He forces himself to look away. Forces himself to repress the thought of all the Pesca tributes in his time since becoming a mentor, who have been shipped home in small black boxes. After all, just because District Four has Careers, does not mean they always have volunteers. There are plenty of child-sized coffins and urns, buried in District Four's cemetery, to prove it.
"She's upstairs." Bo's voice breaks through the haze Finnick feels his mind descending into, as does Mags' tap to his shoulder. Bo hesitates, looking to his fiyanse then their guests.
"I'll wait down here." Aslin clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable, before heading towards the kitchen.
Mags leads the way, and Finnick follows. He remembers, after her breakdown, when he had made this same journey, only to have the door locked at the top landing. In contrast to that time, the door is wide opened, curtains pushed aside to allow the bright sun and blue skies to shine through the splayed-opened windows. And, rather than finding Annie under the bed, or on the floor, she is sitting in a rocking chair which faces the windows. Bo pauses in the doorframe, only entering the room to allow Mags and Finnick to pass by him.
"Annie," Bo tries, back-stepping and leaning heavily against the wooden molding. He crosses his arms, and sets a hard stare on Finnick.
Seeking to evade the judgmental glare, and feeling Mags' stare is just as intent, Finnick moves towards Annie, sitting on the edge of the bed so he can see her better. A distant smile is on her face, but her eyes are heavy, glassed over; her arms bearing only marks of syringe injections, and not that of any fresh self-mutilation. An inhale catches sharply, because he realizes that her lips are moving, wordlessly, and fingers twitch, as if they are in the midst of something.
Knots, he thinks. She is imagining tying knots.
Finnick feels sick again.
Voices are fuzzy, and when he turns to Mags, he realizes that he must have missed something, because she and Bo both stare at him expectantly. He says nothing, but Mags breaks the silence, thankfully.
"Higher dose." weathered hands motion to Annie. Mags approaches, setting a gentle hand on the top of the girl's head. Crowsfoot eyes meet Finnick's with a smirk that should not get under his skin. "Less malad, yes?"
Less malad? No, Annie does not look any less ill than she had the day they all came home. She looks lost, although, in this case, at least she looks happy about it.
"Sure," Finnick keeps his voice neutral, before trying to follow the gaze of sea-green eyes. A patchy fluff of cloud drifts aimlessly, and Finnick tries not to imagine what Annie sees in its shadow.
Does it look like a disfigured head, to you, Annie? I could almost see that, there.
(He thinks, I should spare you the pain and just kill you
He thinks, We don't deserve this)
Snow wants Annie fixed, and so does Finnick, yet nothing would make Finnick happier than sparing her the President's wrath. Sparing her from living at all. Finnick is too weak and too selfish to do that. Always has been. But if he could...
"Finnick?" Bo Cresta calls the former out of his reverie. The oldest Cresta looks between the Golden Boy and Mags, before a hesitation. "Look, I appreciate you coming, but it's not a big deal, Mags can handle her when she's… like this. We'll only be gone about an hour, just going back to Pesca. Most've my things're there still at the old Cresta house."
Old Cresta, oldest Cresta, Finnick's mind begins churning backwards, against the current, down the stairs and to the left, to the body of Mr. Jobe Cresta-
The corpse will linger here until tomorrow morning, when the undertaker will tote Mr. Cresta away, to be cremated. Pesca's dèy custom is mildly disturbing, barbaric to Finnick's Waterside sensibilities. The Pesca family washes, dresses, and prepares the body, then sits two evenings, from sunset to sunrise, in silence. Today is day two. Tomorrow, the corpse will be out of the house. Finnick wonders if Annie is even aware of what is going on. As far as he knows, she, herself, has said and done nothing coherent since they dragged her out of the water.
Mags begins to hum, in her own, grumble-coughing sort of way, as she runs her fingers through Annie's hair. The girl's hands have gone still, but there are no other changes.
Bo comes a few steps into the room now, before pausing.
"I'm saying, you should go."
Finnick stares in response.
"It's pretty heavy stuff they've sent." the man's voice falters, and his eyes drift to the back of his sister's head. "Mags can handle her."
"I'm not leaving," is the simple response.
This is my fault, hangs in the air, but Finnick will not say it. He tries to tell himself that it is a lie, one President Snow would doubtlessly condone. One more weight on Finnick Odair's shoulders, it would be a stroke of luck, for dear old Coriolanus. But Annie, Annie, Annie- is any of this really her fault, either? Of course not. They are all just victims.
Whose fault does it become, then? Someone helpless and defenseless, because of their own mind; or someone helpless and overdrawn, in the area of compassion?
Apathy has never been so appealing a notion. Finnick leans his head back, ignoring the expressions exchanged between Mags and Bo. It is an imaginary conversation, but voices in Finnick's head have it out, anyway:
'Good boy. Estipid, but good.'
'He told my sister that she's crazy and he hates her. He's slept with and left more people than I've ever met.'
He follows Annie's line of sight, once again, now focused only on a wide expanse of bright blue. None of them says anything further about Finnick leaving.
Annie's eyelashes begin batting in patterns.
Code.
Could it be?
(Annie, where are you?)
Finnick wonders if Bo would be able to read what she is saying, or if it is nonsense. Her lips remain partially opened, though they do not move. Her fingers continue to twitch and weave something in the air, which only she can see.
"We're going to grab some things from home." Bo is looking at his sister, expression caught halfway between disgust and pity. Does he really expect a response from the girl they have drugged into an abyss? "We'll be back by dinner. Need anything?"
Realizing the question is directed partly towards himself, Finnick shakes his head. Bo lingers, before leaving. Mags kisses Annie's forehead, following Bo Cresta out of the room. Hushed voices speak outside the doorway, before steps tap down the stairs, and the screen door shuts. Finnick does not bother to try to understand any of what the others say. A few pots and pans clink downstairs in the kitchen, presumably Mags taking it upon herself to begin cooking something up.
Finnick watches Annie. He wants to go where she goes, especially seeing how it makes her smile.
"I'm so sorry," he says aloud.
She is lost, and he knows she cannot hear him, but he still needs to tell her. He needs her to know. He stands, and moves closer to her. He kneels in front of the girl before taking her hands in both of his, and squeezing them. Her eyes stay glassed over, fingers continuing to fidget even as he holds her hands. He sees her lips move, again; tries to understand what she is saying, in her hazy state. It is no use.
"I hope you don't come back, sometimes," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. "Wherever you go, seems much happier than here."
Eyelashes flutter, catching strands of her hair, and he reaches up, pushing the strands away. He runs a thumb along her cheek. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Her lids are heavier, now, even than they had been moments earlier.
"Where are you, Annie?" he is talking to a shell, to a ghost, to something, not someone. Her eyes close, in a hazy slumber, he assumes. "Sleep tight."
Finnick pushes himself up, kisses Annie's forehead. He crosses the room, leaves to see if he can be of assistance to Mags. He makes sure to steer as far away from the sitting room, and Mr. Cresta's deceased, decaying form, as possible.
It is hot. It is hot, and humid, and sticky, and Mags says Annie's kitchen is about as barren as Haymitch Abernathy's root cellar in winter. At least, Finnick thinks that is what Mags has said. Sometimes, it is hard to tell, when the old woman takes on too many nouns and verbs at once. Apparently, Bo and Aslin have not gone shopping for the girl. A few spices and some expired milk are all that linger in the cupboards. Mags has informed Finnick that she needed to gather proper sweet-tea supplies, and rice from her own home, and could you stay with Annie, be sure she's safe?
The dead body is in the house with him, Finnick knows, as is a sixteen-year-old who is a shell and despondent and gone, for all intents and purposes. Sitting on the top of the stairs, Finnick wonders which is truly worse company: the deceased, or the catatonic?
Finnick, eventually, allows the light press of humid air lull him to sleep, drifting through a waking dream made of haze and blood and ashes.
He sees little Annie on a boat with candy, random bloodied men talking about the number thirteen-
The phone rings, and his eyes snap opened.
He hesitates, wondering if, perhaps, he is still dreaming. He looks over his shoulder, into Annie's room. The girl is just as she was, still and quiet in the rocking chair in the corner of her room: eyes, still heavily lidded, stare at nothing. The telephone sounds again.
Finnick clenches his jaw, a nausea in his stomach unrelated to what he has eaten today. Roses, he can practically conjure them from thin air, and his instincts scream for him to run, run far away. Rising deliberately, Finnick heads down the stairs. The phone seems to know he is coming; it continues, bleating, until his hand reaches out, lifts the receiver to his ear.
How long have you been watching today, Snow? Nothing better to do?
(Not like the guy's got a country to run, or anything.)
"Hello." his voice is flat, but he does not care.
The man calling him is the same who did this; has probably watched the entire time.
"Mr. Odair, how good to hear your voice."
Finnick has no energy for this game. The President waits a moment.
"Not loquacious today, Mr. Odair?" a brief pause gives little room for retort. "That's too bad. I trust, in any case, that my message has been so graciously passed along to Miss Cresta. This call is merely to inform you, that you will accompanying the victor team from your District, during Miss Cresta's upcoming Victory Tour. You will assist her in expressing her deep appreciation for all that the Capitol has provided for her."
Finnick's head is spinning, and his hand squeezes the receiver with such force, imagining it is Snow's neck. Snow wants him on Annie's Victory Tour.
(This means, when we arrive in the Capitol…)
"Mr. Odair, I will need some form of acknowledgement. Am I clear?"
"Crystal." Finnick's tongue is sharp. His body feels heavy, so heavy. He tries to tell himself it is the heat and damp air, and not the weight of invisible chains.
"Careful, Odair."
The poison is in the snake's bite, menacing and potent, and Finnick knows it. Always coiled, ready to strike. Still, he laughs aloud.
The snake thinks I don't know what he can do. This man has whored him out since age fourteen; slaughtered entire families, children and pets included, yet still feels a need to threaten him verbally. What could be funnier?
"Is something amusing, Mr. Odair?" the tone is cold.
It brings Finnick back, because Annie is catatonic in her room, and her brother and Aslin are oblivious, and absent; and Mags, strong as she is, is frail in age and health.
"No, sir."
"Good, I am certain you understand the nature of Miss Cresta's predicament." the reminder brings ice water to a mind drunk on fitful slumber and self-reproach. "Undoubtedly, we would hate to inconvenience the rest of her family. It would be awful, should something worsen her condition, so soon after her father's passing."
"I understand, sir-"
"After all," Snow continues over Finnick. "Her medications are quite expensive. Were you aware? Surely we cannot provide such a luxury to someone unable to repay the Capitol's generosity."
"Naturally."
If they do not comply, they will not even be permitted to tranquilize her, because they will have nothing left to use. Morphling is too addicting. They all know what happens to Victors like Annie Cresta in District Six, and ending up like that is not part of the President's plan. No, the Capitol-provided tranquilizers and medications are the only things that calm her. The threat of denying access to sedatives has never felt so vicious. She has not harmed herself, not since they gave her this new medication; neither has she really been a person, whole and complete and competent. But when have any of them, any Victor, truly be allowed to be whole persons?
Finnick closes his eyes. He is trying to find that place where Annie goes, where she disappears and smiles. He is jealous of her, for that. His mind does not provide escapes, only prison cells.
"This new medication will need to be administered by a medical professional. I have selected him personally." the sneer, the amusement clearly filling the President, makes Finnick's blood boil. "The first dosages Miss Cresta's family has so kindly begun to administer already, but the physician will be on hand to treat Miss Cresta up to and during the tour. He is confident he will have her prepared for her duties as a Victor within the next month."
Finnick is unsure what he says in response, it is lost in a haze of fury. He might say thank you, sir.
"Oh, and," the President pauses, though with Finnick's lack of responses he can hardly be expected to say anything now. "Do remember our previous conversations. It wouldn't do for our Golden Boy to be... distracted. Would it?"
"Yes, sir." The words sound like they are coming out of someone else's mouth. That is precisely the idea Snow relishes. Stuff the Victors so full of the Capitol, there is little to nothing of them left to protest.
"Glad we have that cleared up." the venom, the venom of a snake spits through the phone and at a cough, Finnick sees the man's lips, spurting blood. If only the flow of blood never stopped. "Put Miss Cresta on the phone."
"Sir, she-"
"I am not fond of repeating myself, Mr. Odair."
"Yes, sir." the words spill out, before Finnick can swallow over the lump in his throat; before he sets the phone to the side, walks slowly up to Annie's room.
She is vacant, listless, staring out the window. He tugs her to her feet, bracing her by the shoulders when it looks as if she will fall. She allows herself to be led downstairs (a little lamb for the slaughter, this is so wrong), standing where he places her. When he offers the phone, she stares through him, fingers fidget, but give no indication of intent to hold the phone herself. Finnick feels a tightness in his chest, but pushes it down, presses the phone to Annie's ear, holding it there himself. He cannot hear the conversation, except for muffled sounds of Snow's voice. Annie's lips hang opened, as if she might respond, but when it becomes apparent that she does not acknowledge him (such a sin, such a sin, Annie Cresta is going to suffer again), the voice booms out with finality one final sentence:
"Enjoy the remainder of your vacation."
When the line clicks, Finnick leads Annie back upstairs, tucking her in her bed. When Mags returns, he departs, saying nothing and refusing to allow himself a look back.
Enjoy the remainder of your vacation.
Big joke.
(No renmen li, Finnick.
Aren't you just a barrel of laughs lately, Mr. Odair?)