This story was inspired by Mr Selfridge. More specifically, Victor Colleano's situation in series 1. As anyone following me on tumblr will probably know, I noticed a lot of similarities between Victor's situation and Finnick's, and this has been playing on my mind for a while. Hope you all enjoy :)

He was so lucky to have this job. When the restaurant first opened, the line of people hoping to be granted places there was so long it stretched out the door and halfway down the road.

Finnick worked hard; he couldn't afford to lose it. Times had been hard since that his parents had died, leaving just him and his grandmother. Granny Mags did her part, buying cheap beads in the marketplace and turning them into beautifully intricate pieces of jewellery to sell. However, they both knew that it was Finnick's income that bought most of their food, paid most of the rent. They'd be out on the street should he be sacked.

After maybe a week of working hard at the new restaurant, Finnick was pulled aside by the manager. Fearing the worst, he shoved his sweaty hands into his trouser pockets and hoped he didn't look too nervous.

"You do know why we employed you, don't you?" Mr Snow asked.

Finnick shrugged. "Because I'm a hard-worker, I guess."

"No," Mr Snow's lips, which were overly plush and looked fairly slimy, spread in a smile. "You're very good-looking, Mr Odair," he said, taking Finnick's chin and tilting his head from side to side slowly, inspecting his face from every angle. "Flirt with the customers. All of them- even if you don't find them attractive. We cater to the city's most wealthy citizens, and they'll tip extra if they like the service provided."

It felt wrong, plastering on a cheeky smile, complimenting women he'd never met on the cut of their gown or the blush on their cheeks. Finnick forced himself to go through with it anyway, though, because he couldn't afford to upset Mr Snow. He couldn't afford to lose this job. He couldn't force Granny Mags to live out on the street; she was so old and so fragile, one winter out there would surely be enough to kill her. She was all he had left; he couldn't- wouldn't- lose her.

He never told Granny Mags, of course. She'd tell him not to do anything that made him feel uncomfortable, force him to hand in his resignation. She'd say not to worry about her. Finnick had known his grandmother his whole life; he knew what she was like.

A few weeks after Mr Snow had pulled him aside, one of the customers at the restaurant asked Finnick if he was free that Friday night.

"I'm having a... a party," she explained. "A very small party, mind. I was wondering if you might want to... wait the tables for me... I'd make sure to reward you richly."

Finnick was about to politely decline (Granny Mags would pull together whatever savings they had to buy a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery every Friday, and if he hurried home after work it was usually still warm), but caught Mr Snow watching him from across the restaurant like a hawk.

"I'd be delighted to accept, Miss..." he trailed off pointedly.

"Miss Cornelia," the woman introduced herself.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful lady," Finnick found himself saying, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.

The next day, a large box of expensive chocolates arrived at the restaurant, wrapped up in brown paper and bearing a label which read 'For Finnick Odair- Miss Cornelia xxx'

"I don't know what I did to deserve these," Finnick admitted aloud to Gloss, a colleague of his.

Gloss laughed, but immediately fell quiet when he realised that Finnick was being serious. "Have you been to her house?"

"I'm going Friday night. She said she wanted me to serve at a small party there, I don't see-"

"Poor, poor, naive Finn," Gloss patted him on the head as though he was an endearing small child or some kind of well-behaved puppy. "You do realise that you and her are going to be the only people at this 'party', don't you?"

He took the chocolates home for Granny Mags. She asked where he got them from, and thankfully didn't pry further when he said they were 'just a gift from a pleased customer'. That Friday night, he went to the address Miss Cornelia had given him. She paid him handsomely for his services, which sweetened the deal a little. Still, he couldn't help but feel incredibly dirty as he snuck back into the house he had grown up in in the small hours of the morning.

This was getting ridiculous.

Three weeks ago, Annie hadn't been able to make it to their weekly meeting; her father had fallen ill, so she'd had to run the family florist's until he was better. A fortnight ago, Johanna had been condemned to bed with what Annie still suspected was a hang-over, but she'd not dared broach the subject with the woman in question for fear of being found dead in a ditch somewhere the next morning. And last week, Delly had landed herself a date during her lunch break and so conveniently 'forgot' to show up to their lady's meeting.

"How are we supposed to discuss the cause if we never meet up?" Madge asked. For the first time in a month, their whole gang was together; Annie didn't need to be paying attention to know that Madge Undersee intended to take advantage of that fact. "We need to decide upon a day, time and place that is do-able for all of us, and stick to it."

"I can't help it if I was ill," Johanna grumbled.

Katniss shot her a suspicious look, one that made Annie feel immensely relieved that she was apparently not the only one who suspected that their friend's recent 'illness' was in fact alcohol-induced.

They decided between them that Tuesday lunch times would be good. Now all that needed sorting was the place at which they would meet.

"There's that new restaurant down the road from your house, Kat," Katniss winced at Delly's nickname for her. "The Capitol, or something?"

"I've heard of it," Madge nodded. "It looks rather fancy."

"If we all pull together," Annie said, "we could afford a weekly table."

Madge pursed her lips. "It'd also give everyone more incentive to attend our meetings if they'd paid money towards it in advance."

It was decided. Katniss popped into The Capitol on her way home and inquired as to whether or not a weekly reservation would be possible. Mr Snow was more than happy to oblige, making sure to inform her as to just how expensive such a reoccurring reservation would be. She returned the next day with the others, each of them carrying their own share of the fee in cash. Mr Snow was delighted, counting the coins out on the counter, and said he couldn't wait to see them all next Tuesday.

"What a charming old man," Delly marvelled aloud as they left the restaurant.

Mr Snow had warned them that morning about the 'large group of ladies' who would be visiting the restaurant for lunch that day, about how they were to be extra polite to them as they had booked a year-long weekly reservation and he did not want them to come to him before that year was up, dissatisfied with their service and demanding their money back.

Lunch times were always busy at The Capitol, and Finnick was the only waiter not already occupied when the women finally entered. Grabbing his notepad and a pencil, he waited for them to settle down at their reserved table by the window before making his way over.

"Hello, my name is Finnick Odair and I will be your waiter today," he rattled off the usual introduction.

"What kind of a name is Finnick?" One of the women, a brunette with large brown eyes and a forest green dress, scoffed. Her friend beside her- the one with the tanned skin and the side braid- nudged her sharply and shot her a pointed look.

"Thank you, Mr Odair," said one of two blondes at the table. This one's hair was more of a golden colour, whereas he noticed the other had a slight reddish tint to it. "If you'll excuse Miss Mason; she has a tendency to forget herself around friends."

Finnick looked at the woman with the brown eyes, Miss Mason, and flashed a smile. "That's quite alright, Miss Mason."

"I'm Miss Undersee," the blonde continued. "Then we have Miss Everdeen," with the side braid, "Miss Mason you know, Miss Cartwright," with the reddish-blonde hair, "and finally, Miss Cresta." Miss Cresta offered him a tight-lipped smile and returned to perusing her menu.

Once they'd ordered and their food had been served, Finnick watched them from across the restaurant in a manner he hoped was inconspicuous. Apparently it was not as he thought, as Gloss nudged him with an elbow as he walked past with an empty tray, returning from the kitchen a short while later to stand by his side.

"Quite a fine collection, aren't they?" the blond remarked.

"I was watching their dynamic," Finnick explained. "They're a rather interesting group. Despite Miss Mason clearly being the loudest and most boisterous of the group, Miss Undersee is clearly in charge. Miss Cartwright seems to be a social butterfly, you know? She seems to take part in several conversations with several people at once, and never get confused. Miss Everdeen listens, rarely speaks, but when she does they all seem to listen; whatever she says must be of value. And Miss Cresta..."

"Miss Cresta...?" Gloss prompted.

"I can't figure out what she's doing there with them, to be frank with you," Finnick admitted. "She seems to have spent have most of their lunch together staring off into the distance, eyes all glazed over."

"Weird," Gloss agreed. "You're right, though, they are interesting to watch." Pause. "And rather nice on the eye, too, might I add."

Finnick elbowed him.

Finnick's life continued on as normal. He waited tables during the day, flirting with customers as he went. He got called to the houses of strangers regularly, and he always went for fear of his job. And besides, when was a little extra money ever bad? He felt awful for Granny Mags, who still treated him like her beloved grandson, her precious, innocent dear, because he wasn't anymore. He wasn't precious or innocent or dear. He didn't deserve her love, her affection, her care. He was horrid and dirty, tainted by so many clawing fingernails and so many painted lips that he'd long lost count.

But he couldn't tell her any of that, so he smiled and joked as he always had done, and hoped she wouldn't notice a difference in him.

Miss Undersee and her friends continued to visit the restaurant every Tuesday. Though all he did for them was wait their table, Finnick found himself looking forward to their weekly visits. They were a breath of fresh air; when they flirted, they didn't expect him to follow them home and tear their clothes off their bodies and whisper sweet lies in their ears. They meant it for fun. They let him in on their inside jokes and talked to him like he was a person, not a piece of meat. He appreciated it, more than he could ever express.

Then, one Tuesday, Finnick messed up.

He leant over the table to place Miss Mason's tomato soup in front of her, but he must've moved slightly too far forward because before he realised what was happening he was sprawled across the middle of the table and the bowl of soup had fallen from his hands.

Finnick leapt to his feet and straightened the condiments he'd knocked over with his clumsiness before Mr Snow noticed, checking over his shoulder just to make sure he was safe.

Once that was sorted, he went to look for the soup bowl.

It hadn't gone far. In fact, it had landed in Miss Cresta's lap. She'd been wearing a pale pink dress that day, and it was now splattered with red in a fashion incredibly noticeable.

She was shaking. She was staring at her hands and shaking. God, he felt awful.

"Miss Cresta, I'm sorry," he attempted, but she wasn't willing to listen. Standing up, she marched out of the restaurant.

Miss Cartwright went to follow her, but Miss Undersee stopped her with a hand to the shoulder. The leader of the group shot Finnick a look, and he got the message instantly.

Grabbing a handful of napkins from behind the counter, he headed outside to look for Miss Cresta.

She was just around the corner, sitting on a wooden bench. Her elbows were resting upon her knees, her head was in her hands, and it was only as Finnick grew closer that he noticed how her shoulders were shaking with sobs.

He'd made her cry. He'd made a lady cry. His mother would be turning in her grave.

Feeling nervous (because he'd just spilt soup all over her dress, of course), Finnick sat down on the bench beside her.

"Look," he said gently. "I really am very sorry. I brought some napkins so you can clean yourself up a bit, if you like. I know it's not ideal but it's the best I can think of and- look, Miss Cresta, I really am sorry."

She sat up a little, looked at him with tearful eyes before taking a napkin from the bundle in his hands and dabbing away the watery streaks running down her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry." Finnick found he couldn't say the words enough.

"It's alright," Miss Cresta assured him. "It isn't your fault."

"But I-"

"All that red it just... it just reminded me of someone, that's all."

He wasn't sure why he suddenly felt so bold, so curious, but Finnick found the word "Who?" slipping from his mouth before he had chance to stop it.

"My brother," Miss Cresta was fiddling with napkin in her hands now, folding it into a tight little square and then unfolding it, repeating the action over and over. "He, um, he killed himself."

"I'm so sorry," Finnick was beginning to hate himself, hate those words, but they seemed to be the only thing he was able to say.

"Don't be," Miss Cresta looked up at him and smiled. He'd not seen her smile before, not really, but it was beautiful. Her green eyes crinkled slightly and her nose wrinkled, just a little, and it was so adorable and so beautiful. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know, I just-"

"It's just there was so much blood, you know?" she continued on, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Finnick had even spoken at all. Maybe she was. "When I found him in his bedroom, there was so much blood. I had to touch it, to kneel in it, while I checked to see if he was breathing, if he had a pulse. It got all over my dress, my hands- I'm sorry." There, now she was saying it. "You didn't need to know all that."

"It's okay," Finnick said, taking one of her hands in his in a manner he hoped was reassuring (as opposed to creepy). "You must've looked down, seen a giant red stain on your dress, and your mind must've immediately jumped to..." he trailed off.

She nodded, "Yes."

"Listen, Miss Cresta," Finnick began. "I need to get back to The Capitol before Mr Snow notices I'm gone."

"Can't you wait with me?" she asked, looking up at him with pleading eyes, "Just until I'm ready to go back? It shouldn't take any longer than five minutes, I'm sure."

Against his better judgement, he agreed. Something in those big green eyes just wouldn't let him refuse her.

Mr Snow fired him. He waited until the end of the day, when they were packing everything away for the night, and then approached Finnick.

"You were absent for thirty minutes during the lunch hour," he said, tone eerily calm. "You know we're at our busiest then."

"I'm sorry, Mr Snow," Finnick insisted, head bowed and cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "It won't happen again."

"I'm sure it won't," Mr Snow agreed. "After all, you won't be working here as of now."

"W-what?" Finnick spluttered out.

"You heard me," Mr Snow nodded towards the door. "You're dismissed."

He didn't tell Granny Mags. He couldn't. So when she asked him how his day was, he said it was 'fine', and when she asked if anything exciting happened he said 'no'.

The next few days were spent searching for a new job. Just when Finnick was beginning to resign himself to a life on the street, he found a sign that read 'help wanted'.

He pushed the door open and was immediately bombarded by a host of bright colours and new smells.

The florist. He was in the florist.

"Can I help you?" a friendly-looking man asked from behind the counter.

"Hello, I'm Finnick Odair," he introduced himself, walking across the shop to shake the other man's hand. "I was wondering if you still needed help?"

"As a matter of fact, we do," the man confirmed. "Why? Are you offering your services?"

"I am, sir."

The man laughed. "I won't have 'sir' in here. It makes the very air feel stuffy, and we can't have that in a flower shop, can we. No, call me Jonah."

"Jonah," Finnick tested the name out, "alright then."

"When can you start?" Jonah asked.

Finnick shrugged, "as soon as possible."

Again, Jonah laughed. Finnick wondered where he'd seen that little nose crinkle before. "In that case, how about now? I need to pop out to post some letters."

"Of course, si- Jonah," he quickly corrected himself.

"Since you're new and all," Jonah continued, walking around from behind the counter and untying his apron, handing it to Finnick, "I'll get my daughter to come help you out. Don't get used to it, mind; I want you fully independent this time next week."

"Yes, s- Jonah."

"Annie!" Jonah called. "Come here!"

The man explained the situation to his daughter, while Finnick studied the floor, the ceiling, anything to keep himself from looking at her.

"Mr Odair," she said, once her father had left, and Finnick found his eyes snapping up to meet hers before he could stop them.

He could feel the blush rising in his cheeks already. "Miss Cresta," he greeted.

She smiled that delightful little smile of hers. "Come on; I'll teach you a little about floriography while there aren't any customers."

Floriography- the secret language of flowers