There's not a single face but Annie's that he recognizes in this room. When he's been in the beds of so many of the Capitol's high society, that should be reassuring. There's nobody here he's seen at the Games, or in the Capitol, or in District 4 or anywhere in ten years of being paraded through the Capitol and around Panem except the woman at his side.
He doesn't know what that means. Doesn't know how he can get from the arena and Annie can get from Four to the same place in minutes. Moments, because Annie's watch had said that it was only a few minutes past the start time of the Games. That's something not even the Capitol can do, surely.
Something that most people don't know about Annie is that she has a strength in her Finnick thinks surpasses his own: where he bends, she stands firm, even in spite of everything she's been through. Now, when he's so afraid for her, for what being here could mean, she's looking for an answer that he knows he should be looking for too.
But every moment with her here is a moment he didn't think he'd had.
That poem he'd written her, one of so many stupid things he's scribbled down and read to her, but this one a weapon against the Capitol and a message to her, was meant to be his last farewell to her, and now they've somehow stolen more time, he's afraid to question it, for her sake.
He's already faced the fact that he may die soon. But Annie -- no. Nothing can happen to her.
He just wants to sit here, with her, their hands wrapped together, and cheat the arena. Just a little longer. But just a little longer will never end, and Finnick's not a coward. Whatever this is, Annie's right, they have to face it.
He takes a deep breath, glancing around the room, yet again. Unchanged. No apparent threat. All visible weapons holstered. But there are things Finnick could use if he needed to fight.
He squeezes her hand. They're a team. Like they can never be back in Four.
"None of these people look like they're from the Capitol," he says, out of the side of his mouth, his voice coming quietly as he assesses the threat. "There are a few people standing on their own we can go see."
That does mean getting up. And it means letting go of her hand. But he'll do it, because she's right.
no subject
He doesn't know what that means. Doesn't know how he can get from the arena and Annie can get from Four to the same place in minutes. Moments, because Annie's watch had said that it was only a few minutes past the start time of the Games. That's something not even the Capitol can do, surely.
Something that most people don't know about Annie is that she has a strength in her Finnick thinks surpasses his own: where he bends, she stands firm, even in spite of everything she's been through. Now, when he's so afraid for her, for what being here could mean, she's looking for an answer that he knows he should be looking for too.
But every moment with her here is a moment he didn't think he'd had.
That poem he'd written her, one of so many stupid things he's scribbled down and read to her, but this one a weapon against the Capitol and a message to her, was meant to be his last farewell to her, and now they've somehow stolen more time, he's afraid to question it, for her sake.
He's already faced the fact that he may die soon. But Annie -- no. Nothing can happen to her.
He just wants to sit here, with her, their hands wrapped together, and cheat the arena. Just a little longer. But just a little longer will never end, and Finnick's not a coward. Whatever this is, Annie's right, they have to face it.
He takes a deep breath, glancing around the room, yet again. Unchanged. No apparent threat. All visible weapons holstered. But there are things Finnick could use if he needed to fight.
He squeezes her hand. They're a team. Like they can never be back in Four.
"None of these people look like they're from the Capitol," he says, out of the side of his mouth, his voice coming quietly as he assesses the threat. "There are a few people standing on their own we can go see."
That does mean getting up. And it means letting go of her hand. But he'll do it, because she's right.
"Come on."