I do not own The Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair is precious.

The Girl With The Green Eyes

Trapped


And he doesn't leave her.

Not for long anyway.

He follows, at acceptable Mentor distance, face carefully blank and unassuming as the medical team loads her into the ground transport.

And takes her . . .

I'm right here, Annie.

I'm right here.

. . . away.


They check her out, do all the necessary evaluations on her.

She's lost several pounds since the Games began, has superficial injuries, bruises, scratches, the healing fire ant bites.

Other than that, she's fine.

On the outside.

They tend to her, wash her hair, outfit her in a clean hospital gown.

Put her in a soft bed, hydrating, electrolyte-infused IV in her arm.

And Annie Cresta . . .

". . . be fine in a few days."

Yeah. Sure.

That's been my experience.

. . . sleeps.


Finnick stays close, sitting in a chair by her bedside.

Mags comes in, stays with him.

Brings his rope if he needs the distraction.

He doesn't, he can't afford it.

He needs to be ready, for when she wakes up.

He doesn't want to miss it, doesn't want to miss being there for Annie.

And so, for the first time since the Games began, Finnick Odair watches Annie Cresta sleep . . .

Of course, it's the drugs.

Blessed, blessed drugs.

. . . peacefully.

No more twitches, no more jerks.

No more flailings and wailings.

And part of him wishes . . .

Just to have a little peace.

. . . she were like this all the time.


And then she moves.

Just the twitch of a finger at first, the movement of a thumb.

Finnick sits up straighter, leans forward enough to reach out to her if she needs him.

Annie.

Her eyelids flutter, her breathing shifts.

Her lips part, her body . . .

Oh no.

. . . stiffens.

"Mmmf-"

And things begin to go immediately . . .

Annie.

. . . wrong.

"Annie-"

His voice is a whisper.

But she jerks up, suddenly gasping and flailing.

"Annie, no-"

Scrabbling at her chest and arms, fumbling fingers finding the IV, ripping it out, next the leads, faster than he can stop her.

Clawing at her oxygen cannula.

"Annie, wait-"

Breathing harsh and rough, eyes wild and unfocused.

Mewling sounds tearing from her wretched throat.

Finnick leaps onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her, already steeling himself for whatever blow he's about to earn.

Wraps his arms around her, holds tight.

Buries his face in her hair, murmured words seeking out her hearing ear.

"Annie, it's okay, it's over,-"

It's never over, it'll never be over.

He's lying to her, lying through his perfect Capitol teeth to her.

But it works, it helps.

As the nursing attendants burst into the room, Annie clings to him, pushes her face into his chest, arms gripping for all her might, leaving red marks and scratches he doesn't worry about feeling.

Finnick holds out a hand to them.

"Wait, just give her a minute, please."

And they do, uncertain whether he will be the next person to require a sedative or physical restraint.

Mags is there too, standing at the end of the bed.

One hand out, one hand to her heart.

Dark eyes pleading mutely.

And Finnick murmurs low.

"Annie, they've got some medicine to help you rest. Please don't fight them. They're here to help you."

And she whimpers and clings closer to him.

But does not flinch and howl and fight when the attendants come.

And ease her back to sleep again.


The next time she wakes up, he's there.

"Finnick."

Her voice is hardly more than a croak.

"Finnick."

And Finnick Odair reaches out his hand and grasps hers tightly.

"I'm here, Annie. I'm right here."

Her green eyes are filling already with the horror of the Games, of her endured isolation, her terror, near deaths.

"Is it over?"

It's more of a plea than a question.

"Yes, it's over. It's done."

She shakes her head weakly.

"I can't believe that. It's too much of a nightmare."

He nods.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Mags is there, coming around to Annie's other side.

Old, wrinkled, arthritic hands still strong with hope, with love for this traumatized girl in the bed.

Stroking her hair, her face.

And Finnick knows she, so old and so physically weak, is stronger than any of them, stronger than even the strongest tributes.

Because she, through all the horror of her Games and the following years, found the strength to love again, to live again.

And that takes more strength than anything, that willingness to care after being so hurt and damaged and destroyed.

"We're here."

Something that Finnick is, and feels he will always be, unable to do.

"We're not going to leave you alone."


"I wish I was dead."

He doesn't speak.

Only continues to hold her hand.

"I wish I had died in that arena."

She doesn't need to hear some pointless platitude he might spout.

"I don't know why I kept swimming."

Doesn't need the guilt of knowing that the things she is saying are breaking his heart.

"Because part of you wanted to live."

He understands everything about her in this experience.

"I don't know how anymore."

Everything except . . .

Neither do I.

. . . how to fix her.


She lets Mags brush her hair.

That long, wavy, fiery hair.

She sits shakily near the end of the bed, Mags behind her.

Mags, who never dared to bear any children who might be Reaped for The Hunger Games, brushes Annie's hair.

Annie, whose breathing slows, eyes closed.

As Mags, Victor of 11th Annual Hunger Games, sits behind her in peace and silence.

And brushes her hair.

And Finnick Odair . . .

She really is beautiful.

. . . looks on in a moment of rare and welcome . . .

They both are.

. . . levity.


"I want to go home."

Her voice is calmer, eyes, spirit, no less broken and sad.

And Finnick nods.

Wants to grant her wish.

Needs to grant her wish.

"I know."

But they can't.

That's not the way the Hunger Games works.

Even when it's over, it's not really over.

"You have to interview with Caesar first. Be crowned by President Snow."

And fear flashes through Annie, she starts to draw back in on herself.

"Interview?"

Finnick nods. She knows. She's seen.

"Talk about your time in the arena."

And she frowns, shakes her head, the absurdity clear to all.

"I . . . I don't want to talk about that. It was horrible."

Finnick nods again, not letting go of her hand.

"I know. But you don't have a choice."

And Annie . . .

"I'm sorry, Annie."

. . . begins to cry.


Thanks to DinahRay for reviewing so many chapters, my goodness, you need a hug or something!

*sends Finnick*