Chapter Text
You waited for Finnick on the ladder. A hand outstretched, the other white knuckling the bar.
"Go! Go!" He yells, voice cracking, his head whips around as he fights off mutts, it looks like the ocean working against him, crashing into him at every angle.
You shake your head so hard, it makes your ears start ringing again. Damned tinnitus. In your games, the 68th, the boy tribute from district 5 next to you walked right off his platform and it blew to high hell, you went through your whole games essentially deaf and still won. The Capitol doctored up your ears but you were left with impaired hearing. Among other problems.
The next moment is a blur, he reaches for your hand and gets jerked the other way, you call out but you can't even hear yourself , he's tackled by a mutt. He stabs it in the head and pulls himself back out of the water and makes a run for the ladder again.
"Come on!" You practically screech out, voice ragged, desperate, pleading, extending your arm as far as you can and finally, finally, a familiar hand grips yours. You don’t even think before you start moving.
While practically dragging the man up the ladder with you, the mutts attempted to claw up from behind and one manages to latch onto Finnicks left leg and attempts to take you both down with it. You almost slip, too much weight, too much ringing, you realize the shaking is starting to set in with the panic. You look back at Finnick and he's got that look. His grip loosens. Intentional, sacrificial. You want to scream at him, but all you can manage is a choked noise and another head shake.
Then an arrow zips past your head and shoots clean through the mutts skull. Finnick finally gets a good hold of the ladder and you both scramble up it, adrenaline pushing you forward as hands yank you up.
Next thing you know you're running, there's a light that completely melts Messalla and you have to shove Cressida forward. You're practically carrying Finnick because even with the adrenaline he cannot run properly with how deep the mutt dug into his leg. Saws come up through the concrete and your legs almost give out from pushing yourself forward, you're gripping so hard onto his arm you're likely cutting off circulation. You collapse onto the ground when the saws stop and Finnick falls with you with a pained grunt. Shaky inhales and exhales are the only thing to leave you, you feel like you're being pulled under waves, kelp wraps around your ankles and yanks you deeper, you know Finnick is speaking to you but you're too deep in now. Hands are pulling you again and your grip never left Finnick's arm so he's pulled up alongside you.
Words are being said but you can't hear a damn thing the ringing is so loud now. All the gunfire has just made it worse. There's no real time to think as you trudge along on instinct following Cressida blindly as she pounds on a door and it opens. You don't question it as you walk in, or the cat like woman who opens it, or as you are led to a trapdoor, or as you are locked inside. You only snap out of your daze when you hear Pollox mourn his brother in shaky sobs and quiet breaths and finally truly feel the weight of Finnick leaned against you and how tightly your hands are gripped on him. The room was so quiet.
You blink hard as you register that Finnick is speaking to you, that he is alive, that you both are alive, and you reluctantly release your death grip and set him down.
"Can you hear me? Are you with me?" His voice is quiet, practiced. He's talked you down enough to be able to sound like this.
It's hard to focus and you can hardly can think properly. The ringing had stopped at some point, you're not sure when. Your breathing is ragged and shaky and your heart pounds in your chest like its trying to claw through your ribs. It's not until his hand is on your cheek that your eyes meet sea green.
Home.
You blink. Once, twice. The glaze over your eyes dissipates.
"I'm back." You mutter, taking a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut.
He slowly uses both hands to gently squeeze both your shoulders and like clockwork, down your arms, then again, then again. Trying to get your body out of fight or flight and ground you in reality. Practiced. Familiar. You just now notice Katniss had bandaged the wound on Finnick's left leg and that apparently Gale had a whole chunk taken out of his neck that was bandagednow too. How much time had passed without you realizing? He doesn't let you look long, redirecting your attention to his face again. There's arguing, no, convincing happening behind you but it all sounds like static to you.
The owner of the place, who you now know is named Tigris brings the remnants of your squad a dinner. She carries herself with a bitterness, you have to assume its directed towards Snow. Otherwise you're all sitting ducks.
You struggle to fall asleep to say the least. Knowing that if you slept you'd have to drag yourself out of the nightmare, and you weren't sure if you had the strength for that today.
You're glued to Finnick's side, watching his chest rise with every breath, holding your hand in front of his mouth to make sure you weren't just hallucinating him, but you could feel his breath on your hand. Though it doesn't make you stop checking often. You don't even remember the next day, but Finnick reassures you it's for the best that you don't.
The information has to be relayed to you the next day, the basic gist was that there were many casualties of the Capitol civilians, peacekeepers, rebels and medics on both sides, including Prim. Snow was captured and was being held in the greenhouse, Katniss wasn't speaking and she was burnt bad, so was Peeta.
You were given a room in the Capitol, and a bracelet of which you were currently fiddling. It said you were mentally incapacitated. The past month had fucked you up almost beyond recognition. You had trouble recollecting recent events, you would wander without thought and the occasional meltdown would rake your entire body that only Finnick could bring you down from. Doctors would come by sometimes, you can't remember what they would say to you.
"What are you doing up?" Finnick pokes his head in the room, his voice soft and quiet, eyes looking right into yours.
"What?"
"It's almost three in the morning," He explains, then adds, "I woke up and heard you shuffling around."
You look around and realize yes, you had been moving around, standing in only pajama bottoms and a tank top you don't recall putting on in the middle of the room. A chair was knocked over.
"Sorry." You blink, trying to think through the daze.
He waves dismissively at your apology and approaches, or well, limps, with a soft look pushing hair from your face.
"I don't remember waking up. Or putting this on." Your brows furrow in slight frustration, you pick at your nails, and your eyes start to lose their glossy appearance.
"The doctors said its just a trauma response, remember? They're giving you medicine for it. And I dressed you." He explains, gently squeezing up and down your arms methodically again, and again, and again. To ground you, and to stop you from digging at your cuticles without chastising you.
You shake your head, but trust what he's saying.
"I'm sorry." You mutter again, unable to find another set of words to describe how you're feeling. He shakes his head, but his eyes stay kind.
"Try again." He says gently, placing his hands on your shoulders and keeping them there, you look over at him, thinking.
"I feel like I'm dreaming." You say after a moment, looking to him for some sort of clarity.
"Well, I hate to say it, but your dreams aren't anything pleasant, sweetheart." He says with that sort of half smirk he wears when he's teasing, but his tone isn't unkind.
"Fair point." You huff a breath from your nose, which is the most of a laugh he can get out of you these days.
"There you are."
"I'm back." You exhale, meeting his eyes. "Can you stay?" You tilt your head a bit, his right hand slides from your shoulder to your cheek, thumb brushing against your cheekbone.
"Always."