He hadn't wanted to put the pressure of being rearguard on her, of asking her to protect him. Asking her to do anything with the possibility of fighting would have been too much when she's like this, wrung out and clinging to him. He doesn't want to leave her when she's like this. But neither does he want to expose her to the sort of danger that would come from being ahead of him -- or with him -- if this really isn't their house.
The noise of protest she makes clutches into his chest, ripping at his heart, but she doesn't argue, just lets him go and scoops up their avian escort into her arms. Finnick rests a hand on Annie's shoulder as she takes up her position where she can watch out into the road and around the house.
He doesn't have the things with him that he always carries, no flashlight or knives or trident, but he still has years of training that have been honed by so long in that (this?) arena that they've melded back into the instincts that once kept him alive in the Games. He edges through the door, quickly, ducking down under the windows so anyone watching from the darkness will have their sight impacted by the light. He moves a little way along the wall before he pauses, crouched, to let his eyes adjust to the dimness.
The outlines are familiar, the shapes of the furniture that he's become accustomed to seeing in low light from the time before their home had electricity. A chair there, the sofa here, a patch on the wall in the place where the fireplace should be. He doesn't risk calling out, but he nods to Annie before he works his way behind the sofa and towards the dining room. That takes him away from the line of sight from the doorway, but he's not gone for long. There's no sign of anything in the dining room that's unusual except for dust, and the same for the kitchen -- except his backpack, left there as though he'd prepared to leave in the morning and never actually done so.
He grabs the pack, then turns back and heads to the door, where he holds it out to Annie.
no subject
The noise of protest she makes clutches into his chest, ripping at his heart, but she doesn't argue, just lets him go and scoops up their avian escort into her arms. Finnick rests a hand on Annie's shoulder as she takes up her position where she can watch out into the road and around the house.
He doesn't have the things with him that he always carries, no flashlight or knives or trident, but he still has years of training that have been honed by so long in that (this?) arena that they've melded back into the instincts that once kept him alive in the Games. He edges through the door, quickly, ducking down under the windows so anyone watching from the darkness will have their sight impacted by the light. He moves a little way along the wall before he pauses, crouched, to let his eyes adjust to the dimness.
The outlines are familiar, the shapes of the furniture that he's become accustomed to seeing in low light from the time before their home had electricity. A chair there, the sofa here, a patch on the wall in the place where the fireplace should be. He doesn't risk calling out, but he nods to Annie before he works his way behind the sofa and towards the dining room. That takes him away from the line of sight from the doorway, but he's not gone for long. There's no sign of anything in the dining room that's unusual except for dust, and the same for the kitchen -- except his backpack, left there as though he'd prepared to leave in the morning and never actually done so.
He grabs the pack, then turns back and heads to the door, where he holds it out to Annie.
"Nothing wrong on the ground floor except dust."