I do not own The Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair is precious.

The Girl With The Green Eyes

Long Is The Way


She still won't leave her room, open the curtains.

"No. I can't."

And Finnick is at a loss.

"Why not?"

She shakes her head, not looking at him.

"It's out there."

Not looking at anything.

"What?"

Especially, it seems, not anywhere near the curtains.

"The water."

And he feels dumbfounded.

"What? The ocean?"

And she flinches.

"Yes."

Responds in a tiny voice.

"I used to love the . . . water."

Yes. I know. I saw you swim like a fish.

"Now I can't look at it or smell it. I can't hear it."

Her pale face is paling further.

"But I can't hear anything but it."

Except the high points of flush on her cheekbones.

"And I can't . . . I can't . . ."

Calling alert to the gauntness of her face.

"I can't let it touch me."

The strain continuing to take its toll on her body, her spirit.

And it hits him like a Peacekeeper armoured truck.

Oh.

She's still there.

She's still there in that arena.

Not the unfamiliar green one, so closed in, so full of tall, thick trees with their strange branches and oddly-shaped leaves.

No, she is in the other arena.

The waterworld.

The one where she swam for her life, desperate and flailing.

Knowing she would die alone, sink under, breathe in the water she once loved that she now so fears.

And die, drowning and fighting and screaming for air, for life.

It has been communicated to him that she has not allowed her body to be cleansed with water since returning home.

No baths, no showers, not even sponge cleanings or wet cloths.

Instead they have been dry cleansing.

Gels, powders.

She even must be convinced to drink, liquids of any kind cause her throat to close up, every muscle to clench.

She gags, she flails, she vomits.

She refuses fluids so much that she must be IVed to keep her vital organs supplied with enough hydration to prevent them from shutting down.

"I wish I was dead. I wish I had died in that arena."

And Finnick fears . . .

Oh god.

. . . she very well may get her wish.


He considers leaving her alone to her fate.

Maybe in the long run, it will be better for her.

To just go now.

If she doesn't, in six months time . . .

And then in six more months . . .

And Finnick Odair . . .

Would it be a mercy?

. . . doesn't sleep well.


"Annie, . . ."

But he can't.

". . . you have to eat."

He just can't.

"You have to drink."

It's not possible for him to stand aside and watch her go.

Not without a fight.

"You have to live."

And she doesn't move from her place in the corner of her dark room.

Legs and feet drawn up into the plush chair where she stays, night and day, unless otherwise, usually with a good deal of fighting, forced.

She doesn't move, doesn't even look at him.

"Why?"

And he doesn't want to say it, shouldn't say it.

Nothing good will come of it.

Because it only serves to make him, and her, more vulnerable to the Capitol.

President Snow.

"Because . . . because I need you to."

And now her eyes shift to him.

Those green eyes in that pale, gaunt face. Surrounded by that disheveled red hair.

And she doesn't smile, she doesn't blush.

She doesn't giggle, she doesn't preen.

She just stares blankly.

"Why?"

And he has to think it through.

He doesn't love her, he hasn't had the luxury of loving her.

They've all been too busy trying to keep her alive.

But he does care, very much, he can't deny that now.

But it's not about him.

That's not a good enough reason.

It's about . . . it's about . . .

"Because you deserve it, Annie."

. . . her.

"You did it, you survived."

Her arms are tightening around her legs, he's starting to trigger a flashback with his words.

"You survived the arena, out there on your own. Days and days."

But he has to push on.

"You survived swimming."

He has to make her see.

"You survived Caesar and his ridiculous hair."

Finnick, kneeling before her, Annie in the chair, him on the floor, looking up.

Hands not quite touching her, only the fabric of the chair, she might not want him to touch her.

"Annie, you survived President Snow and those big bushy eyebrows of his."

Now there is a whiff of a smile, the suggestion of a smile, the mere passing thought of a smile.

And his heart expands in his chest, releasing just a little of the constricting ache that's been suffocating him since Annie first started screaming.

But he doesn't let go, this is only the beginning, if it is it at that.

"Annie, you survived. You lived."

"And it's not over, they're going to bring you out again . . ."

Dear god, if they try to make her prostitute herself like they do him, he'll kill everyone he can get his hands on until they cut him up into little pieces and serve him with the Escamole insect caviar.

". . . but you're alive now."

"You're alive, Annie."

"And you deserve to get to be alive."

At least until they destroy you all over again.

And Annie Cresta . . .

Please, Annie. Please.

. . . doesn't say anything.


She's eating now, small bites of food.

Hardly more than would sustain a pet rabbit, but she's eating.

And drinking.

Not kicking back Capitol shots in a blisteringly neon room full of furries and Fenderhovens.

But drinking.

Sipping.

Sometimes still reversing, gagging, spitting it out.

But if she can manage it down her throat, Finnick has seen that it will stay.

It is the mere thought of the liquid approaching her face, pouring into her mouth, filling up her throat, so close to her lungs, that is what triggers her.

So tiny, bird-like sips are what Finnick watches her take.

And that . . .

"That's good, Annie."

. . . has to be enough.

"That's really good."

For now.


"Long is the way and dark, that out of hell, leads up to the light." -Dante, circa Morgan Freeman, Seven.

Seems accurate here.

Thanks for reading! :)