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He's killed another one.

Somehow that's what won't leave him alone. Even if it's been for the right reasons, even if there's a gash in his side that's stopped bleeding but still hurts so much he almost needs to bite his lip to keep from screaming. He's had worse. It'll heal. He'll be fine. The Career impaled by his trident and struck with Katniss' arrows won't.

Nothing has changed, and they've been foolish to think otherwise.

And it's not as if he didn't expect this outcome. They couldn't let them live. But that doesn't take away from the fact that another life is lost because of him, and he can't even claim the security of the arena. Can't even claim that it was all part of a game. Whatever Darrow is, however it might mirror the confinement with its invisible walls, it's not the same. He's not even sure he can claim the Capitol made him a killer anymore. Gutting fish from not even four years of age, maybe it was an inevitability.

When he speaks from the couch, though, he does his best not to let that show. It's bad enough that she's had to see him wounded. Nobody needs to know how torn up he feels inside. When he speaks, instead, it's matter-of-fact. Like they're back in the arena. Like this is just another day in their alliance. "So, one down, three to go?"

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It feels like I can't breathe. Like there's an invisible hand clawing at my chest, its nails digging into my skin, past muscle and bone until it can clutch my heart. I've figured out by now that Finnick's going to be okay, and that we're safe here, no one having followed us, but even now that we're back, the doors locked and the blinds drawn, I'm shaking from fear and adrenaline both, a heady chemical combination. It was different, I think, being in the Arena. There was hardly any time to get stuck in my head, to do anything other than strategize and try to stay alive. Killing to survive wasn't just a necessity, it was what we were supposed to do. Now, it's our lives that have been intruded upon, and the people who could be casualties aren't other Tributes. No sponsors are going to come to our aid. We're in this all but alone. The game has changed.

"They know what we fight with now," I say, my mouth pulling into a frown. Tonight, at least we had the element of surprise on our side, but we've blown that chance. We're on home turf, though, so to speak. As far as I can tell, that means we still have the upper hand, provided we can act quickly enough. "We can't go after them again the same way we did tonight. We'll have to try something else."

"What difference does it make?" Finnick asks, shutting his eyes for a moment as another searing pang of pain rises up his side. He reaches down to place his hand against it, applying pressure before he moves to speak again. He's never been one for strategy. Followed that of others, yes, but when it was just him, he relied on skill in the moment, not thinking ahead. "They knew what we fought with in the Quell and we killed them anyway, right? We're Victors, Katniss. They're not. We just need to reload and recharge."

"Half the people in the Quell were fighting with us, not against us," I point out, though he's got a point. We survived the Careers then, we can do it again now. After everything, I don't see another alternative. I didn't survive two Arenas and a war only to get taken out by a group of teenagers who never even got the opportunity to volunteer. They're good, but Finnick and I, we're older, we're smarter. Still, I'm not giving them half a chance to get one up on us. We'll have to try a different approach next time, even if it's only slightly so.

For now, there are other things to worry about. Trying to focus on keeping my breaths steady, on being able to take them at all, I nod towards Finnick to indicate the gash in his side. It's not as bad as it could have been, but that doesn't make it much less worrying, or mean that it's something to be disregarded. "You should let me clean that for you," I say. I've thought about waking up Prim, but even if I don't have the head for medicine that she does, I can manage something that'll see him through until morning, if nothing else. It's too bad I wouldn't know what to give him for the pain. "And get it covered."

"I've had worse," Finnick assures her, and it's a painful kind of truth. He made it out of the first arena pretty well all things considered, but there things that came after. Things that the training centre didn't quite prepare him for. He'd take a gash in his side over that any day. Still, he pulls up his blood-soaked shirt and looks to see the depth again. The main risk is, as always, infection, and he's not about to go to the hospital and have them ask questions.

"Haven't we all," I say, unable to help wincing when he lifts his shirt. The bleeding seems to have stopped, and I don't think it will need stitches, but neither that nor the fact that he's had worse is a reason not to be careful with this now. We can't afford that kind of recklessness. I can't, just like I can't let myself think about how easily this could have been more severe. How just a few more seconds, an inch or two in the other direction, and he might not still be here now. There's too much else to worry about for that, and in spite of all that blood, he's made it through alright. "But this'll be worse if we don't take care of it now."

"Am I supposed to trust you to not make it worse?" Finnick asks, raising an eyebrow. His tone is jovial, light, in spite of the circumstance, because giving into the pain means giving into the fight, and he's won it. He has to have won it. Otherwise what did that Career die for? It has to have had meaning.

"I thought your sister was the medical wonder," he adds, though it's obvious he means nothing ill against Katniss. He knows she's capable of more than even she gives herself credit for. She knows that they've all had to learn how to be self-sufficient, and he's seen her in action dealing with Peeta's wound in the 74th. Maybe he lost a leg, but he lived. He rolls over as best he can, trying to sit up so he can get a better look but, ultimately, scrunching up his face from the pain. "If only they had the decency to sanitise their weapons."

"She is," I say, shooting him a look for his question, though there's no heat behind it. There are few people I'd let tease me like that. Luckily for him, Finnick is one of them. "Which is how I know that she'd probably never forgive either of us if we just waited until she wakes up to deal with this." Anything worse, and I'd have her helping already, just as certain that she wouldn't want me to do otherwise. This, though, something messy but not too serious, I can take care of. Cleaning and covering a wound isn't anything too difficult. And if it means being useful, not just turning the same few thoughts over and over in my head, it's that much better. "Wait there, I'll be right back. And try not to get any blood on the couch."

"I'm quite skilled in the art of not making a mess," Finnick calls out after she goes, just loudly enough that she'll hear it without disturbing Prim. He has to resist the urge to do prod at the wound in his side any more than he already has, sometimes not immune to such childish, boyish thoughts. He really has had worse, but somehow it's magnified by the foolish thought he might be able to survive Darrow without injury. A thought that was quickly dashed by the arrival of his trident, Peeta's bread, the Careers.

Edited 2014-03-22 09:40 (UTC)

"Yeah, I bet you are," I shoot back, the sort of thing that I wouldn't have said if he hadn't gone there first. Since he did, I can't imagine he'll mind. Our typical easy banter takes some of the weight off my shoulders, anyway, as I head to the closet, then the kitchen, returning a few moments later holding a wet cloth. I'll rinse the blood off first, then find where Prim keeps the disinfectant and the bandages. If I keep this simple, methodical, plotting out each step in my head, then maybe I'll be less aware of how hard my heart is still pounding, the slight quiver of my hands. "How badly does it hurt?"

"Oh a scale of...?" Finnick starts, mildly mocking, because it's easier to make light of this, of the bizarreness of her attempting to heal him. Easier than focusing on how much it actually does hurt, which is a lot, but not enough that he's going to let anyone convince him he needs outside help. "It hurts. I don't think what you're about to do will help with that. But I also don't want an infection. So. Should I get something to bite on? Do you promise you'll be gentle?

"Only because it's you," I say, rolling my eyes. That his joking still comes as a relief isn't something I'm about to admit, but that's just all the more reason to play along. I think he might need it as much as I do, if not more. I'm not the one who came home hurt tonight. "But I can only do so much, so if you do want something to bite on, you better let me know now. And get that shirt out of the way."

"I think I'll manage," Finnick says, shifting to take his shirt off, wincing as the fabric lightly catches on his wound. It's one of those moments that he can't help be struck by how far they've come. Alliance and all, he's sure Katniss wouldn't be doing the same for him in the Quell. He doesn't let that show, though, just looks at her expectantly, nodding at the wound.

"Good," I reply, looking at the wound in his side and not him as he tugs his shirt off. It'll be easier to stay focused, to at least hide how shaken I am, if I concentrate on what happened, rather than the fact that it happened to Finnick and how close I could have come to losing him tonight. I think of my sister and my mother and the way they'd do this as I start to wash the blood off his skin, as gentle as I said I'd be. Even trying my best to channel them, though, I don't realize I've been holding my breath until my chest starts to ache again, and I exhale in a rush, practically gasping to get air again.

"I'm not that hideous, am I?" Finnick asks, inhaling sharply, but his tone quickly turns more concerned than anything as he realises she's really struggling with this. He remembers seeing her in the arena with Peeta, the disgusting lengths she had to go to keep him alive and to try to salvage his infected leg, but someone he's thought she might have changed since then. Apparently, it still bothers her. "I can try to finish it, if you want."

"I'm fine," I assure him, glancing up briefly to catch his gaze so he knows I mean it. Fine might be a bit of an overstatement, but it isn't like I can't handle this. It's everything else that makes it difficult, both what happened tonight and what happened almost two years ago now, by my count. "Just still tense. And, please, you know this wouldn't make you hideous. I don't think there'll even be much of a scar."

Finnick couldn't care less if it leaves a scar, and Katniss knows that. Despite the peacock-like-demeanor he'd taken on as Victor, looks mean surprisingly little to him. It had grown hard to take pride in his appearance, anyway, when it was so often used against him. But he just nods. "Well, thank you. Although I know the worst is yet to come."

"Unfortunately, you're right about that," I say, head tilting, as I get back to cleaning his side. With the blood washing off, the cut looks less severe than it did before, and that helps. The cloth I've been using is stained red, though, and for one chilling instant, it occurs to me that Finnick's blood is on my hands again. At least this time that's all it is. "Shouldn't be too bad, though. Like you said, you've had worse."

They all have. Finnick can't help but think of the poisonous fog back in the Quell, the agony that it had inflicted, blistering their skin like it had been burned. At least this pain is for a cause. To prevent something, rather than cause it for... what? For entertainment? "Lucky me," he says, though, resting his head against the back of the couch and watching Katniss as she works.

"You are lucky," I say, a little more cautious as I start to clean the wound itself rather than just the slightly reddened skin around it. I don't want to hurt him more than I have to, though it's inevitable, given the circumstances. Even as I speak, I try to keep my attention there, and I'm not sure if what follows is because of that focus, the words leaving my mouth unbidden, or in spite of it. "You know how easily you could have been killed tonight? If this hadn't been so shallow —"

"I know," Finnick says, gritting his teeth as she starts to clean the wound, refusing to let show how much it hurts beyond that. He doesn't want her to stop, anyway, because awful as this is, it's much preferable to the alternative. "Do you know how easily I — we — could have been killed every night, Katniss? Even before we were reaped, even before I became the Golden Boy. We've never been safe."

He pauses to take in a deep, sharp breath. "I'd say Darrow's pretty safe by comparison. I knew what I was going into tonight. And every night. You do what you have to do. If not for yourself, then for the people you love. I'm not letting these Careers hurt people who had the misfortune to live in the same city as you and I."

Edited 2014-03-23 11:30 (UTC)

He's got a point, I know. But there's a difference between living with danger and walking headfirst into it. Obviously I can't fault him for it when I was right there beside him, my bow in my hand as his trident was in his, but that doesn't change what a near miss this was, or how fortunate he is that it isn't worse. The fact that I don't think he needs to be told that doesn't make it any less weighty, either. It doesn't make me any less shaken by what could have happened to him.

"I just —" I say, breathing in through my teeth, keeping my gaze pointedly turned away from him now, like that will change the words that have to follow. Neither does lowering my voice, or half-mumbling. I can't not say it, though, not because I need him to hear it, but because I'm so full up with secrets that to try to hold much else at bay always ultimately fails, like I've reached capacity and something has to be let go. "I don't want to lose you."

"Hey," Finnick says, voice softening, surprised at how much she's taken this to heart. He supposes, though, that no amount of experience in the field of loss makes one immune to losing, and he'd feel the same way if it was Katniss who was struck in her side instead of him. He finds himself glad it wasn't. He realises that he'd sacrifice himself for her for more than the larger cause of Panem, just because she's one of the few he lets himself care about. "I'm not going anywhere if I can help it."

I wish, suddenly, desperately, that I could do something more. That I could better take care of the wound he's got, or I could pull him close as a reminder that he's still here. The problem, of course, is that he won't always be able to help it, that no matter how skilled we might be with our weapons, that won't always make a lot of difference. For now, though, he's alright. He'll survive this, the damage minimal. I just need to keep remembering that instead of focusing on hypotheticals, or on the past. "You better not," I say, not sounding half as offhand as I would like to. "I mean it."

It's strange, having his life so valued. At least in the absence of Annie and Mags, the only two people who loved him for who he is and not what the citizens Capitol wanted to believe he was. And he knows that Katniss' fondness is for the real him, not some illusion of the Golden Boy, sold off to the highest bidder like a piece of meat and not a person with a pulse. That's why when he reaches out to squeeze her hand it means a multitude of things, some of which he can't even define in this moment. There's thanks, reassurance, affection. "I promise."

I'm not expecting it when he reaches for me, but I keep my hand around his for a long moment, ignoring the way my heart lurches up into my throat. For now, he's here. Maybe it isn't right that, after only a few months of having him back, I should be left thinking that I don't know what I'd do without him, but rather than trying to shake that off, I need to just appreciate the fact that it doesn't have to be a concern yet. I don't want to pull away, but it's because of that that I make myself, swallowing hard. "I'm gonna go find the disinfectant and gauze," I say. "I'll be right back, okay?"