sixthiterationlogs | ψ bring me li'l water, now

WHO: Finnick Odair
WHERE: House #57
WHEN: July 8thish
OPEN TO: Beverly Crusher
WARNINGS: Mental health type things

He's tried to stay close to home since the earthquakes started. A few people have stopped by to check in on Annie, and he's not sure how he feels about that: pleased that they're concerned about her, or worried that it's an attempt to manipulate her. And, whichever it is, there's the concern it will lead to a reputation spreading here like she has at home: the mad girl, broken, crazy, not to be taken seriously.

In Panem, that reputation had its benefits, because it shielded her from the worst of what happens to victors, and it keeps her out of the yearly trips to the Capitol for the Games. But in the eyes of the nation, like Finnick is a beautiful, shallow rake sleeping his way into wealth, Annie is fragile, mad, pitiable.

He doesn't know how to stop that happening, especially when the truth is that so much of his time since the earthquakes started has been spent in taking care of Annie, doing chores around the house, making sure there is enough food for her and him and Peeta.

It unsettles him, knowing how vulnerable she must seem, so Finnick does his best to make sure that everything looks as normal as possible. Which is why today, he's outside, hauling a big plastic bucket full of water into the yard, and settling it into a slight hole in the ground, with two geese trailing him curiously.

"There. I refilled it for you," he tells the birds as he turns around in time to see someone approaching up the road.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Finnick is used to earthquakes as the tool of the Gamemakers' trade, used to liven things up when the Games are getting dull, and if the effect of the earthquake in Annies' Games had been horrifying on her, it hadn't gone without impact on Finnick, either. He'd been the one watching, the one whose job it was to work out how to help her, and the fear of watching her, one of his friends, in that seemingly-impossible situation. He can't help thinking of it, seeing the mess Annie's been, knowing what she's afraid of.

"Glad to hear it. Could have been much worse."

The Gamemakers wouldn't use earthquakes if they weren't entertaining, after all, and their sort of entertainment never goes well for the people caught in it, only for the betting audience out for the sight of blood.

Finnick shifts his feet on the ground, scuffing one against the grass, at her question. That's it, isn't it? How's Annie? But so rarely said with any sort of kindness, usually the mocking cruelty of Capitol gossip, that so easily attacks the weak.

"She wasn't herself, when you saw her," he says, a little too suddenly. "Earthquakes aren't good for her. They upset her."

Beverly might not be the counselor and expert on emotions that Deanna is, but she has seen her fair share. She knows what she saw in Annie, and while it isn't pity she felt, it is something closer to protectiveness. Beverly has always been the type to take people under her wing, whether they like it or not. Annie has become one of the ones she wants to look in on and Finnick, too.

"I know," she said kindly with no trace of malice. "I could tell. I wanted to be sure she was doing better now and that you're all right, too."

But she watches his reaction, too, wanting to make sure he is okay and that he's not tired or exhausted or anything else. She doesn't know their story, but she will watch over them anyway. It's the least she can do.

A spot of tension appears between his brows, drawing them together as he considers how much he should tell her, how far he should go to protect Annie from becoming that mad girl here like she is in Panem. He's never forgiven himself for letting her become that, no matter how much of a shield he knows it's been for her.

He doesn't want it to be like that here. Not when she doesn't need the protection it offers from the Capitol.

"She won't be better until the earthquakes stop," he says.

And Finnick won't be all right until Annie is better, but he doesn't say that, just straightens up a little and heads over to the gate in the fence.

"Come in," he says. "If you want."

It's such a small thing to offer, but it means so much. Beverly doesn't know their story, but she can guess that their lives haven't been easy. If there were other earthquakes, or something similarly traumatizing, in their past, that could explain a lot about them both. Especially now.

She just nods, sympathy in the depths of her eyes. "Earthquakes can be scary, especially if you've been scared by them before."

Still, she's more than a little bit surprised at the offer. She hadn't wanted to push in, but now that he's made the offer it feels like an olive branch in a way. It's more than just the typical invitation.

"Thank you," she says, stepping through once there's an opening. "Is there anything I can do for you? Both of you. Even if it's just helping with the birds or bringing you mint to make tea with."

Or food, if they need that, too. Really, she wants to make sure they're both okay, in whatever way she can.

He's careful to close the gap behind her, because some of their geese have a tendency to poke around the fence and try to slip through if there's any latitude for them to do so. Aloft is eyeing him as he moves, and the little goose ruffles its feathers at him as he shuts off its escape route.

He knows that there is a degree of danger to letting Beverly in, because they still carefully guard who comes into their house, he and Annie (and on Peeta's behalf). But it's the same assessment he always has to make: how much to offer, how much to take, and in this case, it's for Annie's protection rather than simply his own interests or curiosity. That's important.

"Tea might be good," he says, as he leads Beverly up to the front door and opens it, holding it open for her, eyeing the birds again, this time the peachicks perched on the railing of the porch. "I didn't know how to make it from anything here."

Beverly is careful not to disturb any of the birds wandering around lest she have to deal with an angry gaggle of geese. Not really what she's got in mind at the moment. So she does her best not to make Finnick or the birds think she's any kind of threat to any of them. The last thing she needs is a misunderstanding.

"It's not difficult unless you decide to fish the leaves out of your tea," she says as she steps inside the door. "Though if you can find a small net with small enough holes that the leaves won't get through but the water will, you might have an easier time of it. I'll bring some mint by later and we can go over it then, if that's all right with you?"

And one day she'll have chamomile and other things to try brewing into tea. Soon, she hopes.

It hardly takes a trained eye to see that Beverly's being careful with the geese, and Finnick is trained, so he notices, and he idly watches the birds as she moves. It's smart of her, because they're territorial, guardians as much as eventual providers of food. But it goes smoothly, Finnick's company apparently counting for enough to grant Beverly passage.

Her suggestion makes his head tilt, a little curiously, as she follows him inside.

"I could make one if I had fine enough cord." Annie's engagement ring is as fine as he's been able to manage so far, but he's not sure if the plant is safe enough to run tea through.

"I'd appreciate it," he admits as he shows her through and indicates the chairs and sofa, inviting her to sit if she wants. Finnick himself settles in a chair, still watching Beverly, his sea-green eyes intent like a cat in the deliberate dimness that comes of keeping the curtains closed so nobody can see in.

"It's not just fear," he says, once he's seated, his voice quiet, as if it were an offhand remark that brings him back to the subject of earthquakes. "She nearly died, five or six years ago."

"That's the problem," she agrees wryly. "Finding almost anything useful here is an exercise in patience and persistence."

Some days it's easier to manage than others. Beverly hasn't been forced to live like this often and when she was, she usually had some measure of certainty that she'd get out or someone would find her and help her get out. Now it's a matter of keeping up the hope that she won't be stuck here forever and that neither will anyone else. Sometimes it does wear on her.

I'm beginning to think negatively, Jean-Luc.

She settles on the sofa this time, noting the dim lighting, but not really minding it. What she's more interested in is the topic of conversation. Annie's health and well-being. Finnick keeps offering her tidbits every so often and she's trying to put them together without prying too much. They seem to be the wary sort and she doesn't want to frighten them off.

"In an earthquake or something similar?" she asks cautiously. Nearly dying would be traumatic enough to have this sort of response to another similar occurrence. Severe PTSD, if she had to guess. She wonders if it's related to the regime Finnick has hinted to her about already.

ψ bring me li'l water, now | CLOSED

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