I do not own The Hunger Games.
Finnick Odair is precious.
The Girl With The Green Eyes
Into The Light
". . ., Annie?"
Finnick turns his head, sees Annie in the dim light.
Annie hesitant, biting her lip, like she's trying to gather her courage.
And finally nods.
Her red hair tickles his neck, the side of his face at the movement and it smells fresh and clean because she's finally managed to let them wash her hair.
Not roses, like the Capitol.
But nice.
"Okay, . . ."
He nods to Mags, Finnick does.
Finnick sitting next to Annie on her bed. Sitting on the edge, his arm around her, holding the fearful girl close and safe.
Mags standing next to the space he's forgotten there was ever a window.
Mags, nods, moves.
And slowly draws back the curtains.
Revealing . . .
". . . here we go ."
. . . the vista beyond.
It's daytime, bright, the sun shining high in an asure blue, nearly cloudless sky.
Below, in their neverending dance, the ocean waves rise and fall, ebbing and flowing.
Right toward Annie Cresta.
The waves swelling across the expanse, lapping hungrily up the beach.
Surging and foaming in insistent, deadly advance.
Finnick and Mags have chosen this time, bright and sunny.
Blinding and overwhelming.
But not creeping shadows anywhere to confuse and alarm.
Low tide, less water, less perceived threat and danger.
And it's still not enough, everything they've done in careful anticipation, in strategic preparation.
Annie draws back, fearful moan issuing from her throat, from deep in her hitching chest, from the pit of her tortured soul.
Turning her face away, pressing it into Finnick's shirted chest.
"No no no . . ."
And he wraps both arms fully around her.
"It's okay, Annie. You're safe. It can't hurt you. It can't hurt you."
It takes time, such things often do.
Finnick and Annie progress from sitting side-by-side on her bed.
To standing halfway to the now open window, fresh seabreeze wafting through and the sounds of the ocean louder than ever.
"Annie, it's okay. You're safe. I promise."
And Annie, gentle, terrified Annie still clinging to him.
Still turning her face away and weeping silent tears that cannot be stopped no more than her ominous ocean itself.
But he supposes it's still an improvement over being locked in a pitch black closet.
"You're doing really well, Annie."
So they keep going, a little . . .
"You're doing really well."
. . . at a time.
"I think I'm crazy."
He barely hears her murmur.
"I feel like I've completely lost who I am and what I am."
But he does catch it.
"And I can't control myself anymore."
It breaks his heart.
"I feel I'm always afraid that I'll go away and never come back."
And he can't think of an adequate response to her completely rational fears of her encroaching insanity.
And so they sit.
Side by side, his arm around her, her pressed to his side.
"Finnick?"
"Yeah?"
"Why aren't you crazy?"
And he laughs, and it sounds brittle and it tastes bitter and it hurts, it hurts more than he can express.
Because I've made myself dead inside.
So I wouldn't go crazy.
Which in and of itself might be a form of insanity.
And that's the way things become for Finnick Odair.
His life becomes solely focused on taking care of Annie Cresta.
He eats, he sleeps, fitfully, of course.
Thrashing his way up out of dark nightmares that claw and eat at him even during the waking hours, the bright sunshine.
And he and Mags take care of Annie.
They watch her slowly progress to the window.
Trembling and floundering.
They take their time, step by step.
And eventually . . .
"I'll stay with you the entire time, I promise."
. . . she makes it . . .
"I won't let you go."
. . . all the way to the beach.
They sit in the sand, hours at a time, closer and closer each time.
Annie sometimes crying, sometimes clinging to him, sometimes rigid and clenched.
Sometimes silent and lifeless as the grave.
Upright and zombified.
But there.
And Finnick Odair . . .
"That's good, Annie. You're doing good."
. . . right there beside her.
It takes more than a month, all told, close to two.
From their return to the Capitol to the end.
But one day Annie makes it all the way to the water itself.
Holding her breath, Finnick can feel it as even now she stays pressed against his side.
Trembling fingers reaching out to touch it, the warm seawater at her toes.
Tears slipping down her cheeks.
They seem to be tears of relief and homecoming and good remembrance.
But he doesn't dare ask.
Only glances back at Mags, dear Mags.
And sees her smile, fingers steepled together, just touching her thin lips.
The joyful nod as her grey hair is lifted gently on the salted ocean breeze.
And Finnick Odair . . .
She did it. She really did it.
. . . is happy.
Thank you to DinahRay for reading so many chapters yesterday, goodness!
*sends Finnick for more hugs*
