Someone was shaking Finnick's shoulder. He wished they'd stop and let him sleep.

"Hey, Finnick, wake up," said whoever it was. "Please? I want to talk to you."

Finnick groaned into the pillow and told the person to leave him alone. It came out as "Mff mhf mffhm."

"Finnick, I know you're awake."

Grumbling silently, he pushed himself up on his hands. Squinting through his hair, he saw he was in a room totally unfamiliar to him. Panicking, he looked to the person who had roused him.

"Katniss," he said in relief. Then, "You are Katniss, aren't you?"

She looked puzzled. "Who else would I be?"

"Thank God." Finnick flopped back down on the bed, this time on his back. "I thought I'd forgotten everything again."

Katniss sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed, tucking her feet under her legs. Finnick looked around him, puzzled. He was lying in a bed with rubber curtains (gray, of course) on either side of him. The room was too plain to be living quarters, but neither did it have the feel of a hospital room.

"Where are we?" he asked. He spotted his rope on the bedside table and tied it around his wrist.

Katniss glanced up, fiddling with the end of her braid. "Temporary shelters. Everything on the upper levels was damaged by the bombs." She flashed him an odd, searching look. "Did you know that Boggs – my security guard – and the others went to rescue Peeta and Annie already?"

"WHAT?" yelped Finnick, leaping out of bed. "Jesus, why doesn't anyone tell me anything!" He yanked his pants on frantically, hoping there was still a chance to catch up with them –

"Save it, Finnick," said Katniss dully. "I already talked to Haymitch. They'll never let us go, and besides, they're too far away already."

"But – " Finnick turned to stare at her, eyes wide, hair falling in his face. "Doesn't he realize how important this is to us? Why weren't we woken up? I have to be there!"

"I know," said Katniss. She looked like he felt, with tangled hair and circles under her red-rimmed eyes. "But apparently it's out of the question."

"Sh-t," breathed Finnick, sitting back down on the bed. He scrubbed his face with his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes so all he saw was darkness…He didn't think Plutarch, Haymitch, or Boggs understood how desperately he had to be the one to go save Annie, to take her safely home and make sure all the others treated her right. Otherwise they would have let him go.

"Gale went, too," said Katniss. "I don't think I could stand it if I – if I lost both of them."

Finnick raised his head to look at her. She was staring into the middle distance with an expression of equal parts desperation and dread. "He's not really your cousin, is he?" asked Finnick.

"Who?"

"Gale."

"Oh." Her eyes darted to his face and away, down to her lap. "No, he's not my cousin."

Finnick ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it out of his face. Looking back at the bedside table, he saw a folded piece of paper with his name written on it in a round script. Frowning, he picked it up and flicked it open.

It was a short note from Evans. I'm sorry, I've had to leave for a few days. We're needed in District Eleven…I wanted to stay, but you know how President Coin gets. Don't worry, I'll be back soon. I look forward to meeting your Annie.

Finnick sighed, folding the note back up and carefully placing it in the exact same position he had found it in. His manic energy of earlier was fading away under a new, more fatalistic mindset.

Leaning back on his hands, he looked over at Katniss and tweaked the corner of his mouth up. Her dark eyebrows met. "What?"

"Don't you see, Katniss, this will decide things," he said. A strange little bubble of desperate hope was growing inside him. "One way or the other. By the end of the day, they'll either be dead or with us. It's…it's more than we could hope for!"

He never wanted to think about Annie dead. Not now. Not ever. But better death than living in constant pain. Finnick had no doubt that a soul as bright and pure as Annie's would be rewarded with something better in death than what had been dealt her in life. She deserved it.

The rubber curtains were jerked open, revealing Haymitch's unshaven face. "I have a job for you kids, if you can pull it together," he said. Finnick nodded, hoping he didn't look too wild. "We still need some post-bombing footage of Thirteen. If we can get it in the next few hours, Beetee can air it leading up to the rescue, and maybe keep the Capitol's attention elsewhere."

"Yes," said Finnick. A nervous excitement began to tingle up and down his limbs. "A distraction. A decoy of sorts."

"What we really need is something so riveting that even President Snow won't be able to tear himself away. Got anything like that?"

Hell yes.

As Finnick downed a hasty breakfast (mindful of the fact he would need ballast, even though he wasn't hungry at all), as he sat still under Fulvia's brushes, as he made his way aboveground, he was remembering. He was dredging out of his brain not visions of silky hair and laughing eyes, or jungles lit by flashes of lightning, but all the dark and disturbing secrets he had been hearing for eight years now, his dubious reward for nights spent in the beds of people who neither knew nor cared what he was going through. All through Katniss' tale of how she met Peeta, he sat hunched over on a chunk of rock, elbows on his knees and face in his hands – remembering.

Katniss ended, looking relieved that it was over. Plutarch hurried over to Finnick, beckoning Haymitch over. "Finnick – you know what you're going to say?"

Finnick looked up at him with a half-smile. "What do you think I've been sitting here for all this time?"

Haymitch frowned. "What exactly – "

Plutarch cut him off, waving his big hands. "Something that will keep every citizen in the Capitol, including Coriolanus Snow, glued to their televisions. Haymitch, for once your girl on fire won't be stealing the show."

"I still don't – "

This time it was Finnick who interrupted him, standing up. "I learned quite a lot about what goes on under the Capitol's painted surface while I was there," he said quietly.

The lines in Haymitch's face deepened, and Finnick realized he was concerned – about Finnick himself. But it was Plutarch he spoke to.

"How dare you ask something like this of him?" he snapped. "Hasn't he been through enough already without having to do this to?"

"It's my decision," said Finnick. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't think I wasn't strong enough."

"Yes, you would," said Haymitch. "You'd jump off a cliff if you thought it would help Annie. Strong enough! Look at you – you're white as a sheet and you're holding that rope so tightly it's cutting into your skin."

Finnick was. He hadn't realized it.

"Well, Finnick?" said Plutarch, with an unsettling avidity in his face. "Will you do it?"

Swallowing hard, Finnick nodded. He avoided Haymitch's eyes as he walked over to the fallen pillar that Katniss had been sitting on, but the one-time victor went with him. "You don't have to do this," he said in an undertone.

"Yes, I do," said Finnick, clenching his rope in his fist. "If it will help her." Haymitch still looked unhappy, but he backed off. "I'm ready."

Behind the camera, Cressida nodded to him. Finnick took a deep breath and began.

"President Snow used to…sell me…my body, that is." His voice was dead, remote, as he focused on keeping himself in one piece. "I wasn't the only one. If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money."

Bitterness began to creep into his voice. "If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it. I wasn't the only one, but I was the most popular. And perhaps the most defenseless, because the people I loved were so defenseless." His voice shook slightly and he hurried on. "To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment."

Katniss' eyes met his, and he was sure she was thinking of what he had told her that first day when they met.

"Secrets," he said. He could see his reflection in the glossy black lens of the camera, and there was a dangerous light growing in his eyes. "And this is where you're going to want to stay turned, President Snow, because so very many of them were about you. But let's begin with some of the others.

"Take Aeschylus Fairtree. I'm sure you know him, he's a great philanthropist who runs a home for orphaned children in his spare time…but I know why he's got such an interest in those small children, and it isn't out of the goodness of his heart…"

On and on the list went, every horrible thing he had heard. As he spoke, not caring that his throat was dry or his hands shaking, he began to feel better. Cleaner. Like the secrets were a pile of muck and sludge that he had carried within him all these years, and now he was purging it from his body.

At last, he reached the subject he knew everyone was waiting to hear about. "And now, on to our good President Coriolanus Snow," he said. "Such a young man when he rose to power." He spoke in a smooth drawl, voice and expression dripping with sarcasm. "Such a clever one to keep it. How, you must ask yourself, did he do it? One word. That's all you really need to know. Poison."

His eyes narrowed and he continued with a hardened visage and a voice that rippled with his hate for that man. "He started as an undersecretary in the Department of Security, but made sure to kiss the department director's ass, so that when the secretary to the director conveniently dropped off of food poisoning, Snow was right there to take the job…"

If what he had held back about the citizens of the Ca – of that place had been muck, then this was vitriol – pure acid that stung him on the way up but burned and scalded all those it fell on.

Finnick talked himself hoarse. It was only a lack of further information that stopped him from continuing to rip the president to shreds. When he finally fell silent, his physically-present audience sat spellbound. Katniss' prep team looked stunned – and greedily fascinated. Plutarch wore a remarkably similar expression, though there was something else in it that Finnick couldn't identify. The film crew was wide-eyed and pale. Nobody moved until Finnick cleared his throat and said, "Cut."

It was like the words to end a magic spell. Everyone began moving, talking. The film crew rushed off to edit. Finnick, standing up, glanced at Katniss, wondering if she wanted him to stay with her, but Plutarch came over and put a heavy arm around his shoulders.

"Finnick!" he said. "Come and walk with me?"

Finnick acquiesced, assuming Plutarch just wanted more details on Ca – on Capi – on their atrocities. But Plutarch did not speak as they walked away from the others into the trees.

They stopped with the ruins of Thirteen just in sight through the branches. His arm was still an uncomfortable weight on Finnick's shoulders; he wanted to shrug it off but felt that would be rude.

"Well, well, Finnick," sighed Plutarch. "I have to say, that was impressive. Very impressive. I'm surprised you've remembered all that."

"Some things stick into your brain, even when you don't want them too," said Finnick wryly.

"Oh, I know, but…" Plutarch sighed, looking out at the dying forest. "Wasn't there anything about the Capitol you enjoyed?"

"Some things," said Finnick with grudging honesty. "Not all the people were horrible – though they were all a bit spoiled and stupid. And…it could be pretty. If you just looked at the outside."

Plutarch laughed. "My boy, that's the most backhanded compliment I've ever heard." He shifted his weight on his feet; whether he intended it or not, the action moved him closer to Finnick, who resisted an impulse to squirm away. "What about Thirteen?"

"I hate it here," said Finnick bluntly. "There's nothing here for me. And I can never forget the reason I had to come here in the first place."

The words reminded him of Plutarch and Haymitch first telling him of Thirteen's existence…and of Plutarch's failed promise. Simmering anger began to rise within Finnick.

"Why?" he asked, and the change in his tone was so abrupt that Plutarch turned his head to stare at him. "Why did you lie to me like that?"

"About what?"

"About rescuing Annie. Even if you were told that you couldn't do it…why didn't you tell me right away?"

"Finnick, my boy, you were ill – psychologically distraught – "

"You still should have told me!" said Finnick, voice rising. A breeze rustled through the otherwise silent woods.

Plutarch sighed. "Finnick, you've been through a lot – and no one's denying what you've suffered – but the fact of the matter is there's a lot of things in this world that you still don't understand – "

"That's a bullsh-t excuse," snapped Finnick, twisting out from under Plutarch's arm. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Plutarch had large blue eyes, but they were pale, and watery. The heavy folds of his sagging skin framed them like curtains around a window.

"I know why," said Finnick, when Plutarch didn't answer. "Because you're a coward."

"No – how dare you – "

"A coward!" shouted Finnick. "You're yellow, just like the rest of them who are happy to sit all day in their fancy houses and gorge themselves and watch children get murdered like it's all a game!"

"Now, Finnick – that is a ridiculous – I have never condoned the Hunger Games – "

Finnick tossed his head back, letting out a harsh bark of laughter. "You! You're the Head Gamemaker!"

"Now see here – I designed it so that you and the others could have a fighting chance of getting out alive – "

"Yeah, right," said Finnick. "Don't tell me you enjoyed coming up with those torments. The blood rain – the jabberjays – they had to come out of someone's sick mind – "

"That 'someone' was President Snow!" retorted Plutarch angrily, whose face was growing red. "Don't insult me unless you have some idea of what you're talking about!"

"And if I don't, whose fault is that?" demanded Finnick. "Everyone, you and the woman and Haymitch, they all seem so goddamned determined to keep us in the dark! Why? What is it they don't want us to know?"

They stared at each other for a long time. Finnick's chest was heaving, his hands balled in fists at his side; Plutarch was staring at him like he'd never seen him before.

"We're hiding nothing," he said at last. Quietly, gruffly. "Nothing. And I'm not going to pretend accusations like that don't hurt me."

He turned away and began to walk back to the trapdoor that would take them back underground. Finnick stared at him, hair ruffled slightly by the breeze, the sky a leaden gray above them.

Finnick stood behind Beetee's chair, Katniss at his side. In front of them was a large TV screen; all around them were desks and screens and people talking into headphones or typing frantically on large, complex keyboards. Beetee himself was watching the little red digits on a clock at the bottom corner of the large screen.

"Right," he said tersely. "Everyone at their positions?"

There was a general chorus of assent from the gathered technicians. Beetee twisted in his chair to speak to Finnick and Katniss. "You two, go to the back of the room," he said. "Don't get in anyone's way. And try to keep silent."

Finnick nodded. There was a hard, tense knot in his throat that made it difficult to get any saliva down. It wasn't, he thought as he picked his way to a dark corner in the back with Katniss, that he was worried about what Snow would do to him once he heard his account of his past misdeeds. It was what he might do to Annie.

She's safe, he thought to himself, eyes closed. Either this will distract everyone so that Boggs and the others can get her out safely, or it won't matter because she'll be dead in a few hours anyway. There's nothing Snow can do to her anymore. She's safe. That's what matters.

"All right," called Beetee. He was dwarfed by the enormous stretch of electric panels and controls in front of him, and even more so by the TV screen looming on the wall above. "Do we have access?"

"Got it," called a technician – a young woman.

"Fifteen seconds!" shouted another one. "Fifteen seconds to play time!"

Finnick impulsively gripped Katniss' hand. She glanced up at him, as tense with anticipation as he was.

"Access still holding – "

"Ten seconds – "

"Everyone, remain calm," said Beetee. "Remember what this is for – "

"Seven seconds – "

" – and good luck!"

"Five seconds – four – three – two – one – "

"Play!"

And thus began an hour-long media battle. Either Beetee and his team had gotten better at hacking, or the Capitol was more interested in hearing what Finnick had said to block it all out, because the District Thirteen team was dominating the screen time. There was a constant babble of talking as the technicians relayed instructions and news back and forth. But Finnick wasn't interested in hearing the propo (he'd said it all already, hadn't he?). He was fascinated by his own appearance.

As narcissistic as that seemed, it was true. The man Finnick saw on the screen was not the person who had rushed home when he heard of the Quarter Quell. His hair, ragged despite all of Fulvia's efforts, fell down to his shoulders now. His face looked gaunt, drawn – but not tired. Instead it was tight with a fierce energy that burned in a pair of green eyes that looked as hard as diamond. Stubble coated his jaw and chin, nearly invisible against the skin that had managed to retain a tan despite over a month underground. There was a fell, savage expression on his face – compelling, but also chilling.

That's me, thought Finnick. That's what I look like now.

And suddenly it frightened him. He couldn't see any trace of the Finnick he'd thought he was in that face on the screen. Where was his old, easygoing humor, he thought in bewilderment. Sure, he could be sarcastic sometimes, but underneath it all he'd always thought he was a decent person…

Finnick was glad when the propo finished and Beetee let go of the broadcast control.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

Finnick sat with Katniss in the little room in the middle of Special Defense, surrounded by green grass and hummingbirds that flitted by, ignorant of what Finnick and Katniss were suffering. All Finnick could do was tie knots, over and over. His fingers, callused from years of working in District Four, did not blister like Katniss', but the tendons and muscles could still get sore. And they did. But he kept at it – because it was the only way to keep his mind off of Annie.

Whenever he thought of her, he could feel the pieces starting to crack and fall away. It was better to shut down his thought processes entirely, to only experience things through the swift movement of fingers and the scrape of hemp on his skin.

He could stop thinking for seconds, and maybe minutes, but not hours. At last the nervous anticipation and sick fear and cold dread overwhelmed him he cast his rope away, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them. He felt sick and was glad he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and then only a little.

"Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?" asked Katniss.

"No." With that one quiet syllable, Finnick left District Thirteen and suddenly it was five years ago and he was a mentor in Annie's Hunger Games, helpless to do anything while she was broken, and gradually realizing that she meant much more to him than anyone else…

Gasping slightly, and with tears in his eyes, he pulled himself out of the memories. "She crept up on me," he said to Katniss, once he was sure he could control his voice.

Katniss did nod respond. Finnick turned his head slightly, looked at her through the gap in his arms. She was pale, her eyes lowered on her rope and her mouth set in a taught line.

More hours passed. Finnick did not sleep. He couldn't. He felt sick, and cold, and tired. It was surely the longest night of his life, longer than infinity, because every second seemed an hour long and there was nothing to mark any change, not a dim in the lights nor a pause in the incessant winging of the hummingbirds, as if Time had gone on and just left him there…

With a noise that sounded loud as cannonfire after the hours of silence, Haymitch opened the door. Finnick lurched to his feet, muscles protesting. His entire future seemed to be hanging on the words about to come out of Haymitch's lips –

"They're back. We're wanted in the hospital. That's all I know."

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Finnick couldn't think. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. He let Katniss take his hand, leading him through the hallways that he didn't see. After weeks of yearning to see Annie, of wanting to hold her so badly it tore holes right through him, all he could feel was dread. Because no one lived through a month in their hands unscathed. All he could think of was swans being stripped of their wings, mermaids and selkies with their fins ripped off…

Oh God.

As they passed through a door, there was more noise, more people. Finnick realized they were in the hospital, and his heart began to pound so hard, so fast, it was choking him. Johanna Mason was rushed past them on a stretcher, unconscious and abused, her hair shaved off, and Finnick nearly passed out. If Annie was in the same state…

Katniss shouted something, left him. Finnick's vision seemed to be blurring.

And then Annie called his name.

His heart stopped but the rest of his body leapt forward. He didn't care that there were people in the way, watching, because Annie cried his name again and was running towards him and at last, at last she was in his arms and he was holding her as close as he dared for someone so fragile, his heart bursting and his breath gone and the tears running down his face, and he thought, If I could choose my death, it would be this. Annie was holding him, tightly, so tightly he could barely breathe, but he was glad because it meant she was strong enough to do so. The hard wall pressed into his back and he folded Annie ever closer to him, his head bent next to hers, her hair brushing his ear and his tears falling warm on the bare skin of her shoulder, and she was gasping and crying like him, and over and over he breathed her name like it was the sweetest song in the world, because it was…

"Finnick," sobbed Annie into his chest. "Oh, Finnick!"

"I'm here," he whispered, voice breaking. "Don't worry, mermaid, I'm here…you're safe…"

She continued to weep and he cradled her, one hand on the back of her head, and he kissed her hair again and again, wishing he could smooth all the tangles and snarls out with the touch of his lips. Nurses and doctors were passing by, but Finnick did not notice them and they left him and Annie alone.

With a shuddering sigh, Annie stopped crying. Gently, Finnick tilted her chin up so she was looking in his eyes, brushing a tear off her cheek with his thumb. There were tiny red pinpricks all along her hairline and a shadow of a bruise was on one cheekbone, but Finnick did not look for physical injuries. He was searching her eyes as if he could see through them to her soul, looking for…that look.

And he couldn't find it. Finnick gasped with joy, tears coming to his eyes. Annie reached up to brush his hair out of his face, and the eyes that looked at him with such love and joy, the eyes that sparkled with tears like the ocean on a sunny day, were shadowed with pain and fear but were not the haunted, dull, lifeless orbs he had dreaded seeing. They had taken Annie…but they had not broken her.

"Oh, Annie," he choked, and pulled her against him again. There was no need for words as they simply held each other, her arms wrapped around his waist, his cheek resting on her hair, their hearts beating together, their breasts rising and falling together. Finnick lowered his head, lips brushing Annie's temple, and she exhaled happily.

"I love you," she whispered, breath fluttering against the skin of his throat. Finnick tightened his arms, eyes closed, the side of his face pressed against hers.

"I love you too," he managed to whisper. "So…so, much…"

Someone nearby softly cleared their throat. "Um…Soldier Odair?"

Finnick opened his eyes and raised his head, blinking back tears as he saw the black-skinned medical attendant standing a couple of feet away, twisting his hands together. Annie hitched up the sheet wrapped under her arms and turned her head to look at him as well, secure in the circle of Finnick's arms. "Yes?" said Finnick hoarsely.

"I'm sorry, Soldier Odair, but Miss Cresta will have to come with me…"

Finnick's arms automatically pulled her closer as she gasped, clutching his shirt. "Why?" asked Finnick, chin raised aggressively.

"I'm sorry, Soldier, but she needs to be examined – "

"Can't that wait?" demanded Finnick, tightening his grip on Annie, who had shuddered and turned her face into his chest at the word examine. "Didn't you already do that on the hovercraft?"

"Well, yes, but it was very basic, and Dr. Aurelius feels a more comprehensive one is necessary to assess the full extent of any damage done – "

A tall man with gray in his dirty blond hair and blue eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses came forward, placing a hand on the attendant's shoulder. "Let them be, Dorian."

The black man nodded and withdrew. The other held his hand out to Finnick. "Dr. Aurelius."

Finnick cautiously lifted one hand from Annie and shook the doctor's, briefly. "Finnick Odair."

"I know." The doctor half-smiled, creasing the side of his face into laugh lines. "We've met before, though I doubt you would remember – you were unconscious." His eyes flicked up and down Finnick and Annie, taking in their expressions, their intertwined figures. "I take it you two don't want to be separated tonight?"

Finnick shook his head vigorously, and Annie found her tongue. "Not at all, Doctor," she said, voice shaking slightly.

Dr. Aurelius smiled, turned away, and beckoned a nurse over, giving her instructions in an undertone. The nurse nodded, her eyes flicking to Finnick and Annie. Then she walked over to the two of them.

"If you could follow me, please?" she said. Finnick pulled away from the wall and walked after her, one arm wrapped securely around Annie. Both of her arms remained twined around his waist; with his free hand he held her elbow, brushing his thumb up and down the smooth skin. They followed the nurse down a hallway into a hospital room with two beds. The sight of sheets and pillows made Finnick realize how much sleep he hadn't gotten and he swayed on his feet.

"This is your room for tonight," said the nurse. Finnick relinquished his hold on Annie and looked away as the nurse helped her into a hospital gown and bed, attached a saline drip to her arm, but then he sat on the edge of the bed, taking Annie's fingers in his own hand and rubbing them. Finnick and Annie simply gazed at each other, and Finnick knew Annie was drinking him in as he was absorbing every particle of her.

"There." The nurse paused, possibly for their approval, but neither Finnick nor Annie was paying attention to her. "If you need anything, just call." Her finger tapped a little red button above the head of Annie's pillow.

Finnick nodded, not looking away from Annie. The nurse hesitated, then left. As the door closed behind her, Annie let out a slow, measured breath.

"I knew I'd see you again," she whispered. "I knew somehow, you'd save me…But why couldn't you come with the others?"

"I was ill," said Finnick quietly. "I was messed-up, too…" Someday he'd tell her about Riley's death, if she hadn't seen it during her capture. But not tonight. Not for a while.

Annie's hand tightened on his and she managed a wistful smile. "It doesn't really matter," she said. "As long as we're together."

"Yes," said Finnick. He blinked wearily, but was determined not to sleep. He couldn't let Annie out of his sight now, for fear he would wake up and find her gone.

Annie's eyelids were drifting shut, too, but she started and jerked them open, hand clutching Finnick's.

"Annie?" She swallowed, staring at him, and he took her other hand reassuringly. "Mermaid, what is it?"

Annie took a deep breath, face pale. "I'm so afraid to sleep," she whispered. "I have such nightmares…I haven't slept in so long…"

Augh, it was like his heart was breaking…Finnick raised her hands to his lips, kissing her fingers. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm here. You're safe. Nothing can hurt you."

Annie's lip quivered. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," he promised.

She swallowed hard and attempted a smile. "Okay, then." Then, "Will you tell me a story?"

So Finnick told her the story of the Princess-Under-the-Waves, watching her eyelids gently drift and close like leaves falling off a tree. The light switch was close on the wall; he reached over and turned the lights out, never once letting go of her hand.

There was enough illumination coming through under the door to let him see. He was content to merely watch Annie, to see the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips parted slightly with every breath, the faint gleam of light on her hair and the way her eyelashes looked like dark smudges on the smooth skin of her cheeks….The blinking blue figures on the little clock next to the bed told him it was a quarter past one, but even dreaming of Annie was a poor substitute for her living, breathing reality…

There was a light tap on the door. Finnick turned his head to see Gale, of all people, open it. "The doc sent me to check if everything's all right," he said in a low voice.

Finnick nodded. "Everything's fine." Gale was about to leave when Finnick forestalled him with a question. "Gale…what did they do to her?"

It was the last thing he wanted to know, to hear…but still, he had to ask.

Gale sighed and came back in the room, pulling up a stool to sit next to Finnick. "Electroshock," he said. "Thousands of tiny needles…" He gestured to the hundreds of tiny marks dotted along Annie's hairline and collarbone.

Finnick swallowed hard, clutching her hand. "That's…horrible," he choked.

"I know," said Gale grimly. "Still, it could have been worse. Look it at Johanna…look at Peeta."

"What's wrong with Peeta?"

"They've…hacked his brain or something. With trackerjacker venom. Now he's convinced Katniss is the enemy." He shifted his bandaged shoulder uncomfortably.

Finnick was speechless. The idea more than horrified him, it appalled him…With a sudden pang in his gut, he thought of Katniss. What it must be like to expect a lover's embrace, and instead find only hate…

"I can't believe they can do that," he muttered.

"There's no telling what some people won't stop at," said Gale. "Especially to someone defenseless, helpless…"

Finnick had another question, but this one was so much harder to ask, because he dreaded the answer so much more… "Gale," he began, "the electroshocks…is that all they did?"

Gale turned to him, frowning. "I think so," he said. "Why? What else?"

Finnick met his eyes, swallowing. He couldn't get the word out, but Gale understood and said it for him. "Rape?"

Looking down, Finnick nodded. Gale let out a long breath, shifting his weight on the stool. "I don't know, Finnick. I wish I could say no, but…I just don't know."

Finnick nodded again, blinking back tears. Dear God, he hoped…he didn't think he could stand it if…

Gale's eyes were flicking from him to the double beds. "You two don't sleep together?" he asked in a low voice.

Finnick shook his head. "Cheap sex is something I've always associated with the Capitol," he quietly. "I didn't want our relationship tainted by that."

"But don't you want her?"

"Yes," said Finnick. "More than anything. I love her. But I'm going to wait for her, until she's ready. I'm not going to push her…"

"Why not? Maybe she just doesn't know – "

"Gale, her first experience with sex was nearly getting raped in the arena by Silas," said Finnick angrily. "What do you think that did to her? I'm waiting until she says it's time, I don't care how long."

"There's not many guys that would do that," said Gale seriously.

"Yeah, well," said Finnick tersely. He was tired, and worn out emotionally, and why the hell were they having this conversation anyway?

After a while, Gale spoke again. "You're a good guy, Finnick," he said. "I wish I'd gotten to know you sooner."

Finnick laughed shortly. "There wasn't a whole lot of me to know for a while."

"All the same…"

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Gale sighed and stood. "If I don't get some rest, I'll probably end up tied to my bed for the next week…Night, Finnick."

"Night." Finnick nodded to him, but as the door opened and shut he had already turned back to Annie. He could still hardly believe she was here…

His eyelids were so, so heavy. Finnick lay down, curling himself up to fit around Annie, her hand in his drawn up to his collarbone. I won't sleep, he thought muzzily, his eyes resting on her face. I'll just lie down for a bit…

The nurse knocked gently on the door the next morning, but there was no answer. Quietly, she cracked it open. Finnick lay next to Annie on the narrow bed, nearly falling off, his hand loosely twined with hers and his eyes shut. Their breathing was deep, peaceful, synchronized.

Smiling, the nurse withdrew and silently shut the door.