#❛ &. ┊ ♆ ` OPEN. ╱ time to play the game.

[fatallyfalling]

Bitter Water 0.10 ~ ♆

“ sweetheart, “

{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}

{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}

warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, PTSD, forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, time skip, unshared feelings, etc

{{ word count }} 2.5 k

{{ outfits }}

{{ prompt }} Something is stirring between the Victors, with Plutarch Heavensbee at the head of the operation. Will it bring you and Finnick closer or tear you further apart? Only time will tell.

{{ a/n }} Y'all better buckle your seatbelts! The timeline will be skipping around only a little from here on out. My drive is slowly returning but I'm focusing more on pushing the plot toward catching fire where most of my plans lie.

You werent sure exactly what web you’d gotten yourself caught in at first.

But it was dangerous, not to mention treason.

It felt wrong, stiffly sitting across the cold dining room table of the frigid, Capital Penthouse apartment you were forced to frequent from the man you’d met almost a year ago now. Plutarch Heavensbee was a…’character’… to say the least. He’d been paying for an hour or two of your time every other week since he’d introduced himself and shaken Finnick’s hand and kissed yours that night at the Gala. He’d claimed to be “someone who could help”.

As much as a prestigious and well known and retired Game-Maker could, anyway.

Whatever that meant.

Your distrust was potent. Obviously.

The reasoning for his short and infrequent meetings had been inconclusive at first, feeling more like an extensive interview than actually answering any of your swarming questions. You hadn’t been able to figure out why a Game-Maker would care for spending coin on the Capital’s Desirables other than some sadistic power-trip. He kept his distance, always formal and polite. If you weren’t so familiar with the cruel games the Capital elite often played, if you weren’t labeled as Desirable, you might have thought him kind. Instead, you remained suspious. Heavensbee’s questions had been simple enough. Asking about how you were coping following your Games, if your life was what you’d dreamed it to be following victory, your brothers, your father. 

The mundane nature of the questions had your jaw tensing, aware that you’d have to word things carefully. Even if they weren’t in the room with you, you were all too aware of how many eyes and ears were on you at all times. You’d answered as blandly as you could manage. Short and concise while maintaining proper poise and eye contact. It was what was expected of you, anyway, as the Capital’s Doe. You hated the nickname but couldn’t seem to shake it. As time went on the Game-maker seemed to get more comfortable, his questions more personal, but always phrased in a backwards sort of way that left the answers open ended and vague. He was planning something. Something bigger than just hosting conversation and something bigger than just the current pool of Victors. He’d mentioned speaking with others only once or twice. Finnick included, as you’d immediately confronted the honey-tanned male after your third meeting with Plutarch months ago. You’d been anxious, a kernal of fear almost convincing you something had gone wrong. A leaden stone in your stomach that kept you on edge.

It’d been late, nearly half-past midnight when you’d gripped the cold, bronze knocker on the 65th Victor’s home and rapped twice. You hadn’t bothered to change from the dress you’d been wearing, even if the horrid garment was more translucent than opaque in some places, merely wrapping a thin shawl over your shoulders to protect yourself from the chilled air. A handful of moments pass, and you start to doubt he’ll answer, but just as you move to turn away the lock clicks and the wooden door creaks as its pulled open.

Your name is a tired rasp on Finnick’s lips.

“Can we talk?” You almost whisper, as if your voice had suddenly been caught in your throat. You rationalize the tightness to be your nerves following Plutarch’s visit. Definitely not the fact Finnick looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Or maybe off a sofa, considering how quickly he’d answered the door. Surely it wasn’t the mess of bronze waves atop his head appearing messy and soft and frizzed all at the same time, nor the glazed over look in his eyes or his groggy expression. Or the fact he didn’t have a shirt.

He says your name again, the syllables rough on his voice and you debate just leaving instead. 

“Get yourself together!” You internally curse at yourself while clearing your voice, averting your eyes from his face to your trembling hands.

“Get In. It’s freezing out.” The male sighs while all but tugging you inside his home. You almost balk, batting his hand away from your arm but he only lets go once the door closes. You give a small huff of annoyance, remembering why you found the 65th Victor insufferable all over again. “I’m fine,” you quip and he gives you a roving look that has your eyes narrowing as a sly smirk tugs the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh, sure. Whatever you say, sweetheart.” 

Sweetheart.

He’s rubbing a hand over his face now, trying to rub the sleep from his features, and you partially regret having woken him up. Bristling under the term of endearment, feeling the tips of your ears warm as it catches you off-guard but you’re quick to shove down the heat pooling in your chest. He was half asleep, probably hadn’t even registered the word on his tongue, you again try to rationalize. It meant nothing. Just another part of his playboy act.

“May I ask what is so important the Darling’s Doe must seek my company this late at night?” Finnick drawls, his voice still rough with sleep and you try not to grimace at the nickname. You knew The Darling to be an early riser, but clearly he was atleast a bit of a sarcastic grump if awoken from his slumber prematurely. “Don’t be a prick because I interrupted your beauty sleep.” You muse, half rolling your eyes and he chuckles, “It’s Heavensbee.” You add and he’s quick to go quiet. Interesting. 

“Has he been visiting you?” You ask rather bluntly, “Paying for your time and just asking questions?” You continue and recognition flickers in his eyes. “Why?” He asks and this time you really do roll your eyes. “It’s weird!” you exclaim, biting back the urge to throw your hands up. “Depends on what you’d qualify as weird,” The Darling rebuttals and you shoot him a pointed look. “You kow what I mean, Peacock.” You snap, gritting your teeth and he chuckles again, eliciting another annoyed huff from you while you cross your arms over your chest. “He’s seen me twice.” The Darling relents and your expression softens a fraction. “You?” He queries and you nod.

“Three times.”

Its his turn to nod and he gestures for you to follow him down the entry hall of the house.

You knew the homes of the Victors were cookie-cutter identical in both outward appearance and indoor floor plan. Only personal decoration and belongings dfferentitated the homes. You allow your gaze to sweep over the walls. They’d been painted a shade of blue that leaned more grey while the intricate mouldings remained white. You hadn’t thought of painting the walls of your own house, before. Now that you thought of it, you hadn’t actually ever been inside Finnick’s house before. And he hadn’t ever been to yours. It was an odd revelation but one you tried to brush off. It didn’t really matter, anyway. He leads you into the kitchen, another twin to your own as you glance around. There was only minimal furnishings, and your gaze lands back on the honey-tanned male as he gestures you to take a seat at the kitchen table. 

“Tea?” He asks and you simply nod as you make yourself comfortable. 

He sets a kettle on the stovetop to boil before slipping into the seat across from yours. “So? What do you want to know?” He asks nonchalantly, tilting his head as if he were a dog being asked for a walk. You have to smother the warmth in your chest all over again. “What has he asked you about?” You reply, trying to keep your tone even and neutral. He’s quiet for a moment, clearly sorting through his thoughts for the information. He bites the inside of his cheek as he thinks, his sea-green gaze averting for a moment.

“Different things,” The 65th Victor shrugs, placing his forearms on the table, “He asked about my Games, the trident, the interviews.” He begins to explain and you nod along intently as he rehashes the meetings. “He asked if I liked being a Victor…” Finnick pauses, something grim crossing his features that you hadn’t seen before. “Asked if I was happy…” he mutters additionally, his gaze flicking up to yours. 

“Are you?” You ask, holding his gaze and its almost as if you’re seeing one another for the first time all over again.

“Gods no.” Finnick shakes his head and you can’t help the relief that floods your veins. “Are you?” He asks, already knowing the answer.

“Don’t make me laugh, Odair,” You almost snort and he cracks a cheeky grin your way.

Another moment of silence passes, but its a more comfortable one than before.

“Did he ask what you thought of the Capital?” You ask next, your voice almost hesitant. Finnick’s grin falters but doesn’t break. “Yeah, he did.” the Darling responds.

“And how did you reply?” You press further, knowing you probably sound just as invasive as the Game-Maker had. “How did you answer?” He parrots back, arching a brow and you leash the urge to roll your eyes again. You were treading into uncharted waters together, sharing secrets that could end not only your prospective “Careers” as Victors but your lives. But a part of you already knew his answer to the question just like he knew yours as you stare at one another in tense anticipation.

You break first.

“There’s too many people watching up there. I couldn’t give him an honest answer.” You sigh, leaning back in your chair.”It’s too dangerous to be honest with anyone.”

“You’re honest with me,” Finnick speaks and your jaw tenses.

“That’s different,” You try to brush him off.

“Is it?” He presses, leaning forward slightly, pressing his forearms into the dark wood of the table firmly. “Who says I won’t turn my back and spill everything to the next Peacekeeper I see?” He adds, and the tilt of his head is suddenly less coy and curious but rather calculating. A predator assessing prey, a glimpse to the version of the man who’d killed his way to victory during his Games at just fourteen. Ice lashes up your spine and you suddenly feel small, vulnerable. You hated this feeling.

“Stop it,” You mutter but his expression doesn’t change. “If there wasn’t any form of trust between us I’d already be dead.” You snap, a venom you weren’t fast enough to leash slipping into your voice and something like mischief flickers in the 65th Victor’s gaze. He backs off, raising his hands in mock surrender and its an effort not to bare your teeth at him. “You’re not funny.” You grumble and he rolls his eyes with a humored scoff. “Trust is conditional for people like us,” Finnick shrugs, and you know he’s right. “Unlike you, I find I have more…sway… with how closely I’m watched. I’ve played their game longer and I know more of their tricks. I know how to use my words as a weapon of their own.” Finnick explains, relaxing back into his chair and his words have regained your attention as you give him a quizzative look. “Are you going to keep responding in tongues or are you actually going to get to the point?” You huff and he smirks, leaving you to glare back at him. “I told Plutarch what I thought,” he starts and you feel your senses perk up in anticipation to his answer. “I told him The Capital was Great, but even things that are great age. They develop cracks. And those cracks need to be repaired before something breaks. Like how some teacups are repaired with gold. Creating something new from something that was broken.” Finnick explains and it takes you a moment to decipher what he was saying. 

The Capital had cracks.

Cracks that possibly weren’t being fixed fast enough. Cracks The Capital possibly didn’t even know about.

Atleast not yet.

“Holy shit,” You’d cursed as everything suddenly clicked.

“Nice language,” Finnick muses and you’re about to make a comeback when the kettle finally sings and you both physically start as it cuts the remaining tension in the room. 

You’re left to gape in your revelation as the honey-tanned Darling pushes back and stands from the table, swiftly moving into the kitchen to shush the shrieking kettle. The air around him is casual and your eye twitches as you realize he’d probably figured things out days if not weeks ago. ‘Damnit..” You swear as your brows sew together and you scrub your hands over your face, not caring nor really remembering the shimmers Hyacinth had painstakingly applied to your skin before the meeting you’d had with the Game-Maker. Finnick says something and you don’t catch it, too lost in your own thoughts.

“What?” You ask, your tone more caught aloof than you would have liked it to be.

“Relax,” Finnick muses, his all too familiar cheshire smirk flashing his too-white canines your way in the dim light of the kitchen. “How do you like your tea?”

The familiar urge to throttle the Peacock flashes through you, dampening any embarrassment to a dull thrum in the back of your mind but you use a sharp exhale to expel the desire from your system before telling him your preferences. Minutes later Finnick returns to the table, two mugs in his hands and he sets one across from you before retaking his seat. You both stare into the brewing herbs a moment before he turns back to the conversation at hand.

“He’s planning something.” Finnick says and you nod, “That much is obvious…” You mutter, keeping your gaze on your steeping drink. “You seemed pretty shell-shocked a minute ago,” The Darling muses and you cut him a glare while muttering a “Shut up,” under your breath that has his cheshire smirk returning.  

“Make me,”

Oh, you’d kill him.

You really would, if you actually had the gaul to, that was.

That late night conversation had lasted well into the wee hours of morning. Neither of you had remembered when you’d moved from the kitchen to the parlor, Finnick stretched across his golden sofa while you’d curled up in an armchair after drinking your tea to the dregs. Neither of you remembered the other falling asleep either.

Not till the morning sun streamed through sheer curtains and inevitably roused you both.

Finnick made more tea, though a stronger, caffeinated variety this time around and you gave him your thanks and a quiet “Be careful,” before taking your leave and making the brisk trek across the culdesac of Victor’s Village to your own home.

Rumors flew through Capital gossip lines by that afternoon. Tales of your “disheveled” parting from the Darling’s home and you wanted to all but melt into sea-foam in the waves and wash away for the following week and a half the news stuck around.

From then on, you were more discreet about your debriefings.

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