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Katniss knows she should be happy. All the victors had been rescued from the Capitol, including Peeta—that was all she had wanted, and Coin had fulfilled her part of the deal. Now it’s her turn to be the Mockingjay everyone wants her to be. Yet there is an overwhelming sense that she is slowly being backed into a corner, a songbird being lured into a cage. She did accept the deal, but now it feels more like a trap.
She sits alone in her quarters, on the edge of her bed as she stares at the opposite wall. Her room is a lot nicer than the other District 13 citizens’, and she’s almost grateful that being the Mockingjay makes everyone treat her either like royalty or a fragile vase. One small benefit of that is the nicer room, but all it reminds her of is her quarters in the tributes centre in the Capitol, where she was pampered up for her imminent death—a queen walking towards the execution block. No matter the little freedoms her position gives her, the outcome is always the same. One way or the other, she’s constantly being used.
Her eyes burn. She’s been staring at the wall for so long that strange colours and geometric shapes swarm her vision. She blinks rapidly, and suddenly Peeta’s there, flashing across the backs of her eyelids—his gaunt, zombified face twisted into a snarl, inches from hers; his wide bloodshot eyes staring into her own, filled with a mix of fear and hatred. She gasps, her hands flying to her neck where the brace is. She can still feel his hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing so hard it feels like her head is going to explode from the pressure.
She can’t breathe.
“Katniss?”
She jumps, almost falling off the bed. It takes a moment for her blurry eyes to make sense of the figure at her door.
“Finnick.” His name leaves her lips in a breath.
“Mind if I come in?”
Katniss nods. He slips in, his feet padding softly on the floor, and eases himself down on the bed next to her. Finnick’s a tall man—around six feet, she guesses—with wide shoulders and a lean build, the result of years of Career training and swimming in District 4. But when he isn’t prancing around trying to act like the Capitol’s darling or the Games’ bloodthirsty tribute, he carries himself with a quiet air. His shoulders hunch, his head drops, his movements are slow and delicate and purposeful. He moves more like a dancer than a killer, in a way that disarms people and allows him to melt into the shadows. Katniss likes the way it puts her at ease, especially with the height difference between them.
“Why’re you here?” she asks quietly, to not strain her already broken voice.
Finnick grins—not the flirty one he puts on that has Capitol women falling all over him, not the cheeky one of the malicious tribute who enjoyed the sound of the cannon sounding in the arena. This grin is just for her.
“What, I can’t see my favourite girl?” He nudges her shoulder gently, earning a small smile from Katniss.
“You should be with Annie. You two haven’t seen each other in…a while.”
“Yeah.” Finnick’s eyes darken for a moment, and he looks away. They stew in silence as both of them remember the events of the last few weeks. Then he blows out a breath. “She’s sleeping now, so I thought it would be a good time to check up on you.”
Katniss’s ears warm at his words. She knows she has a group of people she can count on—Prim, Gale, Finnick, Beetee. Sometimes Haymitch when he isn’t drunk, sometimes her mother when Katniss tries to not remember how she’d let her and Prim down when their father died. Maybe Johanna if she doesn’t hate her for leaving her behind. Peeta. Her hand travels back to her neck. A few weeks ago, Peeta would’ve been on the list. But now she isn’t so sure, and she hates herself for that.
“How is Annie?” she asks.
“She’s like the rest of us—trying to survive. Trying not to think about it all.” Finnick pauses, then turns to her with a serious look. “Don’t pretend I can’t tell when you’re deflecting.”
Katniss scoffs. “I’m not deflecting—”
“Yes you are. I asked if you were okay, and you ask about Annie—”
“You didn’t. You just said you decided to check up on me because Annie’s sleeping, you didn’t ask anything—”
“Okay, okay, Katniss.” Finnick puts his hands up in mock surrender. “You win. But I know you’re smart enough to pick up context clues when they’re put under your nose. So how about this? A deal.”
“Finnick, I—” Katniss turns away, frustration building in her chest. She wanted this to be an easy conversation, but now he’s pressing too far. She’s done with deals.
“Come on. Please? Humour me a bit—I promise this will help.”
Help? She isn’t some scared kid, kicking and crying for her mama, she’s the Mockingjay. But Finnick looks so sincere that she relents, only to not make him upset. “Fine.”
“We ask each other one question,” Finnick says. “Back and forth. You ask something, I answer. I ask, you answer. One question per round, and only one. If I say something and you interrupt me to ask another question, as I know you will, it’ll be my turn again to ask a question. Okay?”
“It’s like a game,” Katniss says. She isn’t sure how she feels about that.
“Yep, like a game. It’s only fun when we’re playing fair, so stick to the rules, all right honey?”
She sighs. “Okay.”
Finnick positively beams. “Okay,” he parrots. “Ladies first.”
Oh, it’s her turn. Her mind goes blank as he stares at her expectantly—then suddenly a thousand questions erupt, about everything and anything, dating back to the Quarter Quell and as recent as now. She tries to hone in on a select few that are most pressing and picks one from the IMPORTANT pile in the back of her head.
“Is it true?”
Finnick cocks his head in confusion, then chuckles. “Gotta be more specific than that, honey.”
“Um.” She struggles for the words. “Is it true what you said about Snow in the propo? About what Snow…did to you?”
She immediately regrets her question. She’d started off too personal, but it was the only coherent question in her mind that wasn’t at all remotely tied to her. An all too familiar shame attempts to drown her. Finnick’s right—she’s not dumb. She knows exactly how this game works. A game of honesty, of secrets traded back and forth between friends to build trust in each other. Instead this time both of them want to, unlike what Finnick had endured at the hands of rich Capitol citizens. This is a game to keep both of them honest, and she’s already messed it up.
Of course.
Finnick’s face goes through a range of emotions—surprise, fear, sadness, finally settling on a hesitant acceptance. He swallows, looking down at his hands where his fingers are moving back and forth rhythmically, weaving an invisible rope into an intricate knot. Only now does Katniss realise he isn’t holding the rope he always carries around.
Another wall of secrecy broken down, for her sake. She clenches her jaw as another wave of guilt washes over her. Every thought she’s had about Finnick has proven false. How many false thoughts has she had about everyone else she loves?
How little does she know about anyone other than herself? How much does she even know herself?
“It’s true.” Finnick’s voice is low and hoarse. Every word sounds like it’s grating through his throat, causing him pain. But he pushes through. “Everything I said is true. Snow knew I was desirable, and it would make him more money. So he sold me to anyone who wanted, held auctions in his mansion, passed me around like a…like a toy. Men. Women. Old. Young. Didn’t matter.”
A horrifying realisation surfaces in Katniss’s mind, making her stomach churn. “You were fourteen when you won your Games.”
“I was.”
A child, forced to sleep with people decades older than him. For ten damn years, until they were liberated in the Quarter Quell. Katniss swallows the bile rising in her throat. The image of the first time she’d met Finnick comes to mind, of him wearing nothing but a see through skirt. Him flirting with her, eating the sugar cube, whispering about secrets in her ear. All of that had been an act he didn’t want any part in.
She places a hand on his arm and squeezes. “I’m sorry, Finnick.”
“Yeah, I—” His voice breaks. He clears his throat, blinking rapidly. “I’m sorry too. But I’m glad the plan for the Quarter Quell worked. I was willing to die for you, just so that there wasn’t any possibility that what happened to me could happen to you too.”
“And now it’ll never happen to you again,” Katniss says firmly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Finnick smiles softly, placing his hand over hers. “My little Mockingjay.”
The word Mockingjay freezes some of the warmth in her heart. Katniss pulls away a little, goosebumps rising on her skin. Her heart starts to thump in her chest—adrenaline floods her veins. She’s slightly short of breath.
It’s her turn now.
“Okay, Katniss,” Finnick says. “Here’s my question for you. How are you feeling about Peeta?”
A simple question, yet it sparks an almost paralysing fear in her. Phantom hands wrap around her throat again. She sucks in a breath, digging her nails into her palms so hard they leave little half-moons in her skin. It’s the one question she’s been asking herself, the one question she refuses to answer. Peeta. Even the sound of his name dredges up a mess of conflicting emotions and crowding thoughts.
One part of her wants to shut down the question immediately. Give a non-committal half answer, a shrug, a forced smile. She’ll move on to her question quickly enough that Finnick won’t have a chance to dig up the truth in her. Thinking about Peeta, not to mention talking about him, feels like a million needles driving into her skin. They pump another million questions in her mind that haunt her, taunting her with their uncertainty—did she fail Peeta? Is Peeta still the same Peeta he was before? Will he ever be the boy she knew and maybe even loved? Will he ever love her again?
Has she lost him forever?
But Finnick’s still looking at her with an impossible softness in his eyes, reminding her of their deal. Of the game. This is the defining moment, when she decides if she’s going to keep running away or stand her ground. To keep lying to everyone, to herself, or cut herself open in front of him, expose her innards and everything that worked inside her.
Finnick reaches out and envelopes her hands in his, his thumbs rubbing across the backs of hers. He’s putting so much faith in her, as do so many other people. Have they put their trust in the wrong person? Have they got the wrong Mockingjay?
No. If they believe in her, she must be the right one. If Finnick believes in her, she must believe in herself.
“I hate him,” she blurts out, and it’s like a dam breaking open—everything rushes out after, words tumbling over each other, a verbal landslide. “I hate that they left him behind, I hate how they tortured him, I hate how he changed and he’s different and I’m still stuck here like I was the one they left behind—”
She chokes on a sob. Tears stream down her face, but she’s too overwhelmed to care. Finnick folds her into his arms, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, breathe, honey.”
“I wish he was dead and I wish I was dead and I wish everyone was dead so all of this didn’t have to happen—I want to sleep and not see their faces in my head, not see Peeta’s face—I want Snow to get out of my head, I want everything to just stop and let me breathe because I can’t—I can’t do this anymore—”
Katniss gasps for air, her chest heaving painfully. Her arms flail, scrambling for purchase, for anything stable to lean on. She’s spinning out of control, imploding in on herself, exploding outward and lashing out and hurting anyone that got in her way. Finnick cradles her in his arms, holding her tighter as she cries out and punches his chest, pressing her face into the crook of his neck with a hand on the back of her head. He holds her and doesn’t let go, and she holds him back, and they hold each other as her cries gradually quieten.
Finally the knot in Katniss’s ribcage loosens. She pulls back slightly and wipes her face, warmth flooding her cheeks. Now that the emotional storm has passed, embarrassment fills the hollowness left in her.
“Sorry,” she mutters, avoiding Finnick’s eyes.
“For what?” His usual teasing tone is back, although much gentler.
She gestures vaguely in the direction of his grey District 13 shirt, which is sodden with her tears and snot.
“Oh, this is nothing,” Finnick says. “You should’ve seen me with Annie. Not a dry eye in the room, that’s for sure.”
Katniss snorts, a grossly wet sound that has Finnick chuckling at her expense. Although some of the embarrassment remains, she’s suddenly too tired to really care. All the fight has drained from her system, and now all she wants to do is sleep for the next twenty years. Maybe then all of this will be over and she won’t need to be the Mockingjay anymore.
“I miss Peeta,” she whispers, more to herself than anything.
Finnick wraps an arm around her, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. It conjures up memories of her kissing Prim goodnight, and an even earlier memory of her father kissing her brow, the long-forgotten scent of pine and smoke filling her nose. She melts into Finnick, basking in his warmth.
“Miss that little bastard too,” he mumbles into her hair. “Hopefully he doesn’t make me regret restarting his heart.”
“Do you think he’ll ever be the same again?” Katniss braces herself for the answer she has a feeling she already knows. Dread fills her, but Finnick’s strong arm holds her steady at his side.
“Hijacking can only do so much. Snow’s trying to turn Peeta into a weapon against you—he’s trying to turn a source of love into a source of fear, for both of you. But if I know Peeta as well as I think I do, I know you’re the one thing Snow can’t take away from him. Peeta as he was before may never come back, but there’s a part of him that will always love you. Give him a chance, Katniss. He might be different, but he’ll still love you all the same.”
The image of Annie and Finnick running into each other’s arms flashes in Katniss’s mind. Both deeply traumatised people, broken in different ways by the same Games, pulled apart and pieced back together in a mosaic of their former selves. Yet the love between them never changed—instead it became stronger.
A happy ending, at least for now, though she doesn’t believe in happy endings. Nothing is truly happy in a world like this—bittersweet is the closest word for it. Every victory is tainted by the losses needed to win it, or maybe that’s what Snow is trying to convince her of by allowing District 13 to rescue a forever changed Peeta. An effort to demoralise the Mockingjay, letting her close enough to see what could be in her future before violently ripping it away from her. A constant reminder to her and the districts that happiness is a luxury given only to those who can afford it.
“I thought the whole couple thing was an act for the Capitol,” Finnick says. “Then Peeta almost died, and I saw it with my own eyes. It’s not an act. You love him, Katniss, and that’s the one thing you can’t let Snow take from you. If we don’t have that, all of this”—he gestures broadly around the room—“what’s the point of it all? The Quarter Quell, the rebellion, the war…if we didn’t care, none of this would be happening.”
A song comes to mind, something her father used to sing softly as they hunted game in the woods together. Sometimes the mockingjays caught on and repeated it to themselves until the trees burst into a symphony of voices carried in the wind.
She only remembers one lyric of it, and it cycles through her mind, again and again—Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping…
Peeta is worth keeping. And that means there’s no way she’s letting Snow take him from her. Not for anything.
“Yeah, you’re right.” Katniss feels her lips curve into a smile. “Thanks, Finnick.”
“You’re most welcome, honey,” he says, then looks her up and down critically. “Are you still up for the game, or should I leave you to rest?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but is interrupted by a yawn. Finnick chuckles. “Guess that does it for me. Come on, you should lay down and get some rest.” He gently pushes her shoulders down until she’s laying flat on her back, being careful not to jostle the brace around her neck, and draws the covers up to her chin. His sea green eyes crinkle in the corners as he gazes down at her.
“We can continue the game tomorrow,” Katniss says, her voice muffled by drowsiness. “It’s…not that bad.”
Finnick’s jaw drops in mock surprise, and he puts a hand over his heart. “How dare you! I spent a lot of time and effort on tailoring this game just for you. It deserves more than not bad.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic, Finnick.”
“It helped, didn’t it?”
Katniss makes herself think for a moment, digging deep into the trenches of her mind and heart so her answer is as truthful as it can get. Most of the anxiety and pain has vanished, replaced with a momentary peace. She smiles softly. “Sure did.”
“Good.” Finnick’s voice is a low baritone as he brushes some hair out of her face. Then he stands up and makes for the door, throwing a casual “See ya later,” over his shoulder before shutting off the light and leaving her room.
Katniss lays there silently for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. She breathes in and out, conscious of the way her chest rises and falls, and feels like she’s just taken her first breath in forever. While it still feels like there’s a cage around her heart, a fist squeezing until she can’t breathe, she knows there’s people around her that love her. A list she can run through in her mind every time she feels like the world is closing in on her, a sort of game she can play along with Finnick’s. So many games, but not all of them are bad.
She adds Peeta’s name to the list and vows never to take it off. She’s not giving up on him, not ever. Snow will never get the satisfaction of that. As Katniss drifts off to sleep, Peeta’s face from before appears in her dreams, bright and beaming and split into that smile she so desperately misses. One day, he’ll come back to her.
She knows he will.