I do not own The Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair is precious.

The Girl With The Green Eyes

All You Have To Do


"Just read it, that's all you have to do."

And she shakes her head.

"I can't."

Not defiantly, not snobbishly.

"Mags wrote it."

Not even sadly.

"I can't."

Just . . . defeatedly.

And Finnick Odair is calmly desperate.

"You have to. Just say the words and smile and it's over, okay?"

If she doesn't do this, it will be viewed as insubordination, subversive and challenging.

She'll be punished. Or killed.

And Finnick can't bear for that to happen.

So he does what Mags has done so many times before with him since her stroke stole the beauty and grace of her words.

Finnick takes Annie's face in his hands, looks deep into her eyes for a long moment.

And puts his forehead to hers, willing her to have the strength to do this.

They stay that way, breathing, Finnick pouring everything he can into Annie to help her do this.

After a moment, she speaks.

"This is real or not real."

And it hurts him to answer, it hurts him so bad.

"It's real."

And I'm sorry.

The moments pass and time is running out.

All he wants to do is hold her, protect her and keep all this far away from her.

But he can't, there's nowhere to escape to.

And so . . .

"You have to go. I'll be here when you get back."

. . . he makes her go.


She says her speech.

"It is an honor to be here today. The fallen tributes of this district were noble and strong fighters."

In front of the silent, staring, assembled crowd of District 5.

Speaking the words Mags has written.

"They, as do we all, serve a worthy common purpose."

Written, but not believed.

But written.

"The honor and glory of our great and good country, . . ."

To appease their Great and Good Leader.

President Coriolanus Snow.

". . . Panem."

And then, to the dutiful, uninspired applause, she turns.

The doors open.

And she walks back into the room.

The doors close behind her.

"Oh god-"

And she promptly throws up, collapsing to her knees-

"Annie-"

-on the cold concrete floor.

Finnick falls to his own knees on one side of her, arm going protectively around her shoulders.

"It's okay, it's over."

Mags on the other side, pulling her lovely red hair back out of the way.

"You did it. You're done.

While Finnick murmurs, continues to murmur, into the fall of her hair.

Annie Cresta wipes her mouth with the back of one shaky hand.

And speaks with a defeated voice of fatalism.

"There's still eleven more districts."

And her ghost pale face is so haunted she seems already gone.

And Finnick . . .

"I know. I'm sorry."

. . . worries.


The train continues on, the days continue on.

One after another, one district after another.

Relentlessly and without mercy.

Speeches, celebrations, parties.

Annie must face the people whose children died and she lived.

Annie must face the people who see her as part of the Capitol, part of the enemy, part of the system that hates them, crushes them, kills them.

And she must do it . . .

"Go. I'll be here when you get back."

. . . all alone.

They are separated often, pulled in different directions.

Annie is forced to speak, to meet, to smile, to shake hands on her own.

She is the Victor of the 70th Annual Hunger Games, not Finnick.

It is she who must do these things, not Finnick.

What it is up to Finnick to do is work behind the scenes, meet and greet with the officials of each District.

Smooze and charm throngs of supporters and adorers at the parties.

The ones that bow to President Snow just as much as him.

Some of them revel in it.

Some despise it as much as he does but try to play the Game as best as they can in order to survive, or help their Districts survive.

And it has already been noticed that Annie appears weak, shaky, and more prone to bouts of inappropriate laughter and words and tears than the high and mighty in Panem prefers to see.

Add to that her tendency to cling to him, turn away from things that overwhelm her and press her face to his chest, this would be a very bad look for The Capitol indeed.

The Capitol who values strength and bravery.

Bad enough to warrant punishment for her and for him were they to see.

And so Finnick Odair must stay away from Annie Cresta during the day when eyes can see.

It has been discussed amongst him and her and Mags.

Discussed and agreed upon, for all their safety.

And still, it hurts.


". . . honor to be here today . . ."

". . . noble and strong fighters . . ."

". . . worthy common purpose . . ."

". . . honor and glory . . ."

". . . great and good country, . . ."

". . . Panem."


". . . honor to be here today . . ."

". . . noble and strong fighters . . ."

". . . worthy common purpose . . ."

". . . honor and glory . . ."

". . . great and good country, . . ."

". . . Panem."


". . . honor to be here today . . ."

". . . noble and strong fighters . . ."

". . . worthy common purpose . . ."

". . . honor and glory . . ."

". . . great and good country, . . ."

". . . Panem."


She doesn't throw up anymore after the third district, only silently cries.

But even that, not after the seventh.

She seems to simply lose all the life within her.

And somehow that is worse.

He fears this tour will break her again, as it is meant to.

Break her beyond what he and Mags and time and Annie herself can repair.

In his experience, it takes ten times longer to put oneself back together again after falling apart.

And he is grateful next year it will only be another sad, half-destroyed Victor to do these things, suffer these things.

Unless it is a Career from District 1 or 2, those that actually revel in the killing, the attention, the Tour, obscene display.

He tries to help hold her together as best as he can.

He, Mags, and Annie all agree on redistribution of the numbing blue pill.

Just for the duration of the Tour.

And just enough . . .

"Okay?"

"Okay."

. . . to take the worst of the edge.


Finnick truthfully hopes, in his own sick, churning, guilty gut, that enough of Annie's unsettling instability manifests itself outward that she is kept safe from the fate he will never escape.

Stay with me, Annie, stay with me.

There are so many times he has wished, continues to wish, that she were dead.

Annie.

If she were dead, he wouldn't have had to be worried about her in the Games.

If she were safe and dead, she wouldn't know fear then and now and forever.

Pain.

Isolation.

If she were dead, it would all be so much better for her.

And him.

Because even when the Games are over, they aren't really over.

Snow knows that.

Finnick knows that.

And Annie, the longer she lives on in this insufferable hell, will come to know that.

He wishes she were dead and he was too.

That way he wouldn't have to see her suffering, bear her suffering, know she was suffering.

He even thinks about killing her himself.

Putting his arms around her, a warm, loving embrace.

Pouring out his love for her, into her.

And then, squeezing, tighter and tighter, her rising fear and pain and dread no worse than it is every single day already.

Suffocating her in his embrace of love, taking care, real, ultimate care of Annie once and for all.

And then in a few moments, it would be over.

She would be at peace, released from the hell of this life.

And then he could die too.

It would be so easy.

But he can't, can't bear to.

He can't hurt Annie.

And he can't hurt himself and hurt his family in the process.

Hurt Mags.

Mags, who would be the only one who might understand.

And Snow.

Snow, who would smile through the blood in his teeth.

So they're stuck in hell, the hell of the Hunger Games, the hell of Panem.

And that's all there is to it.


He's laying in his bed on the quiet rolling Victor Train one night.

Thinking about the day, thinking about the Tour.

Thinking . . .

"Finnick?"

. . . about Annie.

And he sits up, alert and instantly worried.

"Annie? What is it? Are you okay?"

Her form is slender in the doorway, hair full and flowing.

He has a flash of when she came to him on the beach and embraced him with acceptance.

"Yes, um . . ."

She seems to hesitate, he thinks she may run.

". . . I can't sleep, I'm afraid to. I know that's silly but . . ."

Though she has no reason to.

"Can I come in and lay down with you?"

It's the beginning of every perfect steamy, sultry dream of every redblooded male since the dawn of time.

"Oh, yeah, sure . . ."

Especially the ones in love.

". . . come on."

And if she wanted to, if she offered herself to him, reached out for him, he wouldn't deny her, it would hurt her worse than she is already being hurt by this entire experience.

"Thank you."

And he would try to not see the faces of and feel the bodies and touches of the many, many Capitol patrons President Snow has sold him to over the last three years of his life as a Capitol whore.

"Of course."

But Annie Cresta simply closes the door, moves across the room.

And as he holds back the covers, she climbs into his bed.

Curls herself up into his side.

Head on his shoulder, fingers playing with the soft fabric of his shirt.

"Thank you, Finnick. I just couldn't sleep alone."

And he puts his arms around her, warm and safe.

"What about Mags?"

This question may drive her away though it is not intended to.

But he has to ask it because . . .

"I wanted you."

. . . to hear the answer.

"Is that okay?"

And give his own.

"Yes. Of course. Anytime."

So that he can say it.

"Thank you, Finnick. I think I can sleep now."

And she can hear it.

"You're welcome, Annie."

And then . . .

"Good night, Finnick."

"Good night, Annie."

. . . they do.


As I've mentioned before, I just can't imagine having to do that all by yourself. In a weird way, Katniss and Peeta were lucky.

Thanks for reading.

*proffers snuggly Hunger Games boy*