Who: Finnick Odair and Simon Tam What: Simon checks out Finnick's wound from Annie's dungeon. (HE'S TAKING OFF HIS SHIRT, LADIES AND GENTS.) When: Backdated to after her dungeon Where: Clinic Warnings: Hunger Games-level warnings (Finnick's whole backstory is a trigger.)
The truth was that he very much wanted to ignore the wound on his shoulder. But he knew that being here wasn’t the same as being in the Capitol. For all he hated about the Capitol, the medical technology was far beyond what it was here -- and that high-level of technology had always been used to keep him in top shape. It had often felt like a curse (and to be fair, still was in many ways). But without that technology, he knew he needed to be more careful with injuries. (Although, again, to be fair, he had remarkably fewer injuries to contend with here than at the Capitol.)
With the shoulder going a little stiff, he knew that he needed to check in with Simon. He still wasn’t quite sure what the doctor made of him, but Simon hadn’t killed them the last time, so Finnick figured he was safe enough to go see again.
He headed down to the clinic and waited until he saw him.
“Hi,” Finnick greeted with a smile that was certainly brighter than what he was feeling.
…
Simon looked exhausted. It was rare to see him looking other than clean and pressed — harried, perhaps, but rarely so tired that he hadn't shaved. He was sporting a chin of dark stubble and his hair could have used a bit more combing, but when he saw Finnick he attempted a smile. Attempted. Simon was a bit reserved with his emotions regardless, even more so when he didn't have excess energy to spare.
"What's bothering you?" he asked, without any sort of greeting or friendly chitchat. His eyes flickered over Finnick to make a quick assessment of whatever injuries he had.
…
Simon’s unkempt appearance stuck out, but Finnick knew better than to comment on it. He’d heard that there had been several dungeons and it seemed like everyone either had been in one or knew people who were in them. Everyone seemed a bit thrown by what had happened.
“I was in one of the … dungeons this weekend,” Finnick said, the word still feeling strange on his tongue. As far as he was concerned, he’d been back in the arena. Several arenas, to be fair, but it was all the same, more or less.
“I got stabbed in the shoulder,” Finnick said, figuring that was easier to explain than to say that a genetically engineered fish had stabbed him through with a barb that no living animal was supposed to have. He pulled the collar of his shirt enough so that the wound was visible.
“I just want to make sure my arm isn’t going to fall off or anything,” Finnick quipped.
...
Simon inhaled, lifting his fingers to his lips and lightly tapping. "Well, we know that if I'm good for anything, it's making certain your arm doesn't fall off." It was a joke, enough that there was a twinkle in his eye even if he didn't smile. That was just his way, unless he was incredibly comfortable or incredibly drunk.
He closed the door of the exam room and moved to the table to pull on a pair of gloves. "Dare I ask what happened, or are we all trying to forget what happened this weekend?"
…
“I figured you should be my primary arm doctor,” Finnick answered, faux seriously. (Really, it was endearing that Simon was telling a joke.)
He settled against the table when Simon shut the door to the exam room and shrugged his shirt the rest of the way off, figured it would be easier for Simon to take a look at him. However, he was silent for a moment too long after Simon asked him what had happened. He knew there wasn’t any easy way to explain exactly what Annie’s dungeon had been like without explaining the context of their world. Which, in all honesty, he knew that Simon understood that the world he and Katniss came from wasn’t exactly great.
But after his own games, telling the truth had always felt incredibly vulnerable to Finnick. It had been easier for him to let people believe the lies about him than to know just how powerless he was. He also knew that, by sharing what had happened with Simon, in a way he was also sharing Katniss’, Johanna’s, and Annie’s stories, and that might not be something they would appreciate.
But then again, they had also been on the television over the weekend, even if Simon hadn’t seen it. And their stories were all out there for the entire world to see. So what was the point in hiding now?
“Where I’m from, the government holds this competition every year,” Finnick said, still keeping his tone light. “They take 24 kids and put them into an arena. And only one comes out.” He figured that Simon could sort out the meaning of that well enough.
“I won when I was 14,” On instinct, he almost tacked on “youngest ever,” a mantra that had been drilled into him. “My wife won five years after I did. Katniss won four years after her. Katniss and I were both re-reaped the year after that. Annie -- my wife -- her dungeon strung in elements from all the games. There were these fish from her games that had these barbs -- they’d stick people with them and then drag them into the water to die. I got stuck with one while we were looking for her.” Finnick gestured toward his shoulder at the last part.
It was probably the most he’d say about the Hunger Games -- ever. It was strange to explain everything to a stranger who didn’t know anything about them. Who didn’t know how he’d won. But there was a sort of ease that came with it too.
…
Simon's expression throughout this was difficult to read. He would never say that he felt like he'd been trained as a child not to show emotion, because that wasn't the case, but he'd been raised a certain way — and in polite company, expressing the kind of outrage or dismay that this situation warranted just wasn't done. It wasn't professional, either, considering the context of their interaction. He did his best to listen without interjecting, without exclamation, even though on the inside he was almost screaming:
How could anyone do this to a child?
He knew, of course, that there were a lot of things that people would do to children, for any number of reasons, and the sympathy and sadness that anyone else would have felt was, in Simon, more like barely-contained rage.
"I see," he said, his tone clipped. He snapped the glove against his wrist. "And this fish, I take it it isn't venomous." No questions, no horrified disbelief. It should have shocked him, and yet … and yet when he'd seen what the Alliance had done to his sister, he'd lost a lot of faith in governments. His worldview shattered. And thanks to this dungeon, it was all fresh and new again.
More than that: he'd felt what River felt. He'd been strapped down, toyed with, felt … some kind of intrusion into his thoughts. Emotions that weren't his, invasive memories, things he never asked for and couldn't identify. It meant a whole new understanding of what River was going through, but just made him feel rubbed raw and exposed and vulnerable.
So the walls went up.
…
He didn’t know what to expect. It wasn’t like he had spoken to anyone at length about his world. There were people who knew, of course, but even with them Finnick tried to artfully avoid the topic. It was hard putting everything out there.
(Logically, he knew that most people would judge their government to be cruel. But some part of Finnick couldn’t help but be concerned with what they would think of him. What 14-year-old was capable of what he had been capable of? It was something that had grown with him as he’d gotten older. As a Career, he’d shrugged off what he’d done: It was what he had been trained to do, 14 or not. But as he’d matured, become more disillusioned with exactly what was happening, he’d started to wonder. After all, he had not only killed several other tributes, he’d killed his district partner. What had happened to him to make him capable of that? And what did that make him now?)
Simon’s response, short as it was, didn’t bring any relief.
“Well, I’m still standing,” Finnick said with a smile, falling back on his trusted reaction of humor and charm. He pretended that it didn’t bother him. But it did.
…
Simon was quiet for a while, taking Finnick's response at face value — but it resonated deep within him. He knew avoidance when he saw it, he knew staying strong for the sake of others, or for self-preservation. Simon was less charming, to be sure, but he hid his feelings with politeness and mild sarcasm. The only thing he really had for himself was his relationship with Kaylee, and even then he felt like that was frequently put on the back burner to take care of others. To take care of River.
He didn't actually speak to Kaylee about how he felt, not when River and Kaylee were so close. He didn't tell her about the sleepless nights, the worry, the fear. The exhaustion, the resentment that he knew was misplaced because none of this was his sister's fault. He didn't tell her how angry he was about what had been done, how devastated he was by his worldview being destroyed, how much he felt he'd changed and how much was riding on his shoulders and how he worried he couldn't handle it.
The pause had gone on longer than he meant it to, as he quietly cleaned Finnick's wound. Finally, he quietly said, "Sometimes, that's all we can do."
And what did Simon have to complain about, really. He wasn't the victim in any of this.
…
Finnick flinched as Simon cleaned out the wound -- which was ridiculous he knew. (He’d been practically jovial when Simon had cleaned up his arm after all; he’d made it through the Quarter Quell without any complaint despite the beating his body had taken; hell, he’d almost died during his first set of games when he’d taken a knife between the ribs, and after a day in the hospital at the Capitol, he’d been bouncing off the walls, ready to claim his newfound status as victor. His time in the Capitol after that had more than trained to him withstand pain; it had trained him to be able to pretend to enjoy it.)
He glanced briefly up at Simon when commented. He knew all too well the truth in that statement. It had been practically a way of life for him after all. But that was precisely why he was so tired of it.
“How it’s look?” Finnick asked instead, nodding at where Simon was working.
…
"Not terrible," Simon said, not taking the time to look up. "You'll have to be careful with it, and don't do any lifting for a while. I don't think you'll have any permanent loss of mobility; all things considered I think you were lucky."
His professional opinion was easy to offer, at least.
He continued to clean the wound in silence, working with precision and a quiet, determined calm, but really … his mind was elsewhere. It was on what Finnick had told him, about his world, about where he came from. It had seemed for a while that Simon would let it all pass, but it kept coming back to him, nagging at his mind.
"You killed those other children?"
…
The question caught Finnick off guard. Maybe it was just because Simon had shown so little interest in his story. Maybe it was also because no one really asked the question like that in his own world. Logically, he knew it made sense here; people weren’t just going to celebrate it in the same way they did back home.
It was even stranger now, considering his home from an understanding perspective. What kind of people they all had to be to celebrate the one who was capable of killing other children. Victors.
Unbidden, his district partner rose to the forefront of his mind, a memory that he had worked hard to suppress over the years. It had been so easy for him in the arena to kill. (He had been trained to do that. That’s what he had been raised to do.) But no one had told him what it was like to come out. (Fourteen. No one had thought he was going to win, until right at the almost end.) And coming out was hell. Then there were the nightmares, then there were the people who asked what it was like. And told him to smile while he talked about his kills. (Five. Five credited to him, including the girl from District Four. She had never treated him seriously. Not until the very end. He had been an annoying little brother until he had the trident in hand.)
It had been harder and easier in the Quarter Quell. Harder, because he knew damn well what was going to happen when he crawled out of this arena. (Or, at least, he thought he did. As ever, his life was defined by things he stupidly thought he knew.) And easier, because he knew just what to do: He knew how to shut down; knew where to aim; and he knew that there was a bigger mission at stake this time other than bringing glory to himself and Panem.
His first instinct was to smile and make light of things -- and then he stopped, because he realized just how much of a psychopath that would make him seem.
“Yes,” Finnick finally said. What else was there to say? Almost no one made it out of the arena without a kill. And almost no Career made it out of the arena without multiple kills.
...
Simon watched Finnick carefully, his expression guarded. It wasn't really an indicator of who Finnick was as a person, considering he'd been forced to fight for the right to survive and what person wouldn't do that? It wasn't nobler to just lie down and accept it (and if it was, Simon didn't particularly care, because that was nonsense).
"And this has been a custom in your world for … how long?"
…
“The last games Katniss and I were in were the 75th,” Finnick answered. “But we -- sorry, Katniss stops them after that.” It was strange to take himself out of the equation. Everything when he had arrived here had revolved around getting out of the Quarter Quell. Being part of the team that saved Katniss Everdeen. And he supposed this was precisely what he had saved her for: so that she could stop Snow.
But that didn’t mean that it still wasn’t hard to deal with the fact that he died. Especially after coming off yet another set of games. By all accounts, he was one of the luckiest people alive. He had been part of a handful of people who survived two sets of Hunger Games. But his luck had run out in the Capitol. So, it wasn’t them who had done anything at the end. It was her.
...
Simon's brow furrowed at the correction. "You and Katniss seem close," he said, pressing clean gauze against Finnick's wound. "You weren't involved?"
…
Finnick, God help him, couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him when Simon asked if he and Katniss were involved. He knew that it wasn’t the most ridiculous notion in the world -- especially given the circumstances Simon had met them under. (He didn’t think he’d ever live that one down with Katniss, especially because he had kissed the side of her head during the whole ordeal.) It probably also didn’t help that he and Katniss had gotten especially close while they were the only two here.
“No,” Finnick said, still smiling. “Katniss and I were never involved. My wife is the only one I’ve ever loved.” He added that last part with obvious honesty.
…
The corner of Simon's mouth twitched into a faint, surprised smile. "I…" He let out a breath, which almost had something like the start of a chuckle. "No, let me rephrase. I meant, you weren't involved in overthrowing this practice. Your feelings about Katniss one way or the other really aren't any of my business."
…
“Oh,” Finnick answered, the smile almost immediately falling off his face; he rather liked his interpretation of the question better. The answer to this one wasn’t nearly as funny. He ran his uninjured hand through his hair -- one of the few nervous ticks he had left.
“A bit,” Finnick said hesitantly. “I go with her -- Katniss. But I die.”
He could have left it at the simple answer of just “a bit.” But that notion didn’t really occur to him until he after he was done speaking and the words were out there.
…
Simon's expression fell. He cleared his throat, looking away from Finnick to clean up his supplies. It was one of the stranger realities of life here — having a second chance at life even after death. Kaylee had told him that Wash had been killed, in a future that Simon hadn't experienced yet, and yet here he was. It was common, though he couldn't imagine it made things any easier.
"I'm sorry," was his quiet, diplomatic answer in place of anything else to say.
…
“It is what it is,” Finnick said with more levity than he felt. It was easy to fake though, another smile put back in place. (Really, though, he knew he needed to be grateful for the second chance he had here: He knew he got to know Katniss better here than he ever would at home. He and Annie had an unparalleled level of freedom here, and their son was on the way -- a son Finnick would never know in real life.)
He reached for his shirt and begun to shrug it back on.
“Anything else to watch out for then? Besides my arm falling off?” Finnick asked. …
"Don't get stuck in any television dreamworlds," said Simon, so dry that it was almost difficult to recognize it as sarcasm. Maybe he was coming off as a bit prickly, but it was the exhaustion. His skill had always trumped his bedside manner, even if he was good at dealing with patients. "But … no. Keep it clean and cared for, and if you notice any unusual pain or swelling come back to me. I don't usually deal in … fish barb stab wounds."
…
“I certainly hope not,” Finnick answered wryly, although it had a bit of bite. He hoped to never go through something like that again. One arena had been more than enough to last him a lifetime. Having gone back in twice and having mentored for several years after winning his own crown, he was more than done with the Hunger fucking Games. He was ready for some peace and quiet in his and Annie’s lives.
“I don’t either,” Finnick answered, adjusting his shirt so that he was properly dressed. “Let’s hope neither of us have to deal with them again.” …
Simon nodded politely. He'd seem to withdraw a bit, just to avoid asking any questions about Finnick's history that were uncomfortable or rude, and it made him almost seem like he was disgusted by the fact that Finnick had killed people rather than horrified by the situation Finnick had been placed in. "You should be all right, but again, keep me posted if you notice anything strange."
His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile, but it didn't quite get there. "My best to you and your wife."