Screw You. (Literally)

everyone treats him like the angel of the jocks, as if he’s any different. maybe because he doesn’t parade his hookups on display like dean or that he wears that bright smile instead of garrett’s moody demeanor but whatever the reason, you see right through it.

he’s always been cold to you especially in comparison to the girls that flock to him. anytime you were around it’s almost like he’s too stressed to pay you any mind. you question if it’s because you don’t bow down to the hockey players the way the puck bunnies do, but his reason seems deeper than that.

so the last person you thought you’d end up hooking up with in this party bathroom would be him. truthfully it didn’t take much from either of you tonight. the usual sarcastic banter, a couple eye rolls, him blocking your way to the fridge on purpose with his ridiculously large body just to make you say please…

eventually he came up behind you placing his warm hand gently placed on your lower back whispering “meet me in the bathroom in five minutes… or don’t. up to you.” he says. you originally scoff at the insane suggestion, but when glancing up at his face and seeing nothing but seriousness for a change– your body betrayed you.

now sat on the bathroom sink in a rough makeout session and your legs spread apart… he’s pressed up against you between your thighs. the rough material of his jeans still holding in his hard on and despite your best efforts at grinding forward, his mean grip on your hips controls the pace. he’s determined to make you take it achingly slow and is cruelly amused by the mess he’s making out of you.

he told himself he wouldn’t even kiss you, that maybe that will help him justify this. but when he first felt your tempting lips mumble your first bitchy remark that close to his in a private room now with no one else to talk about it, he needed to devour you and couldn’t stop. he knew you’d tease him about your lipstick all over his as soon you were done but he didn’t care. if anything, that drove him further.

for two people fully dressed still, the room sounded like a desperate mess. thank god the music outside was so loud that nobody could ever hear the breathy gasps caused by the bucking of your hips against him both fighting for friction and control of the other. his gripped in your hair yanking every time you tried to take over, keeping you in your place.

if you didn’t know any better, you swore you heard a “beautiful” slip as he nibbled down your neck but the feeling was too intense to process right now. his teeth surely leaving marks, clear payment for all the talking back you do to him around his friends, but his lips graze soothingly for forgiveness over the aching skin quickly after– a confusing feeling that made you shiver.

he laughs at you desperately working to unlock his belt “you need it that bad, huh?”

“god– shut up and hurry up before i change my mind.”

to this comment, he grabs both of your hands and pins them firmly above your head making you go silent and bright red. staring deep into your eyes with his forehead against yours, you feel more naked than ever despite being covered.

“cute… well, this is how this is going to work. if you want me to stop, you say stop. and-”

“i don’t need the sex lecture.”

“well considering your bratty mouth, i’m not expecting you to say anything nice so i need to know you know the real word to stop. fuck you, shut up, your usual miscellaneous insults i won’t let phase me. are we clear?”

you huff nodding quickly wanting the intense eye contact to be over, even though you know he’s doing the right thing. you can’t even think for half of a second that he’s a good person or that he’s doing this for any reason other than boredom, it’ll ruin all of this. so bare minimum thought at best. he raises an eyebrow at you unsatisfied by the lack of words in response which makes you finally say “stop means stop… now can you please fuck me?”

“atta girl… see she does have manners.” he snickers rewarding you with his fingers teasing along your wet folds, making you sigh in both pleasure and relief hearing him finally undo his belt buckle.

“stay like this. i want to see you take it.” he says, wrapping your legs around his back and lining himself up. this surprised you as you expected him to turn you around without needing to even look at each other.

his large hands cup around your face persistent to watch your expression as he sinks deep into you, eyes fixated on your mouth parting, unable to hold back his cocky smirk as you whine out at his length. he pushes fully inside and remains still making you sink into the feeling of him for a minute. “that’s it… take it all.”

“m-move. fuck. aren’t you taking a break from being an asshole?” you plead at his stillness.

“never said all that, but you’d think you’d watch your mouth considering… well…” he taunts, before moving one rough thrust at a time between his words “who’s– in– charge.”

you try to cover your squeal with your hand, but he quickly removes it and holds it back yet again. he keeps the grip on you to help his now relentless thrusts pick up the pace. “what’s the matter? worried someone’s gonna find out you’re letting me fuck you like this?”

his arm wraps around your back where it meets the mirror to soften the banging from his thrusting, at least spare you from a couple marks after the number he did on your neck. he does his best to position himself to where he can cause the least discomfort for you, but still get deep enough to make you squirm. “r-right there, fuck.” you cry at his angle.

“yeah? you like getting fucked like this? such a good girl.” he says picking up the pace, fighting his own moans. he moves one hand to your clit rubbing in small circles, pulling you closer to your orgasm.

“you drive me so fucking crazy…” he mutters breathily, leaving a warm kiss on your forehead. you were already close, but this ruins you. you know his ego is going to do something ridiculous like pull out if you cum without telling him and right now the feeling is too euphoric to care about looking desperate anymore.

“logan–”

he’s almost startled by how gently you say his name for once. “…yes?”

“m’so close.”

“and?”

“please let me cum.”

“see you can be so good. just needed to get put in your place, yeah? cum for me. make a mess all over me.” he coos in your ear, bringing your orgasm rushing.

watching you cum around him with your walls clenching tight is enough, but the harsh tug on his hair from your fingers curled tight in the strands is what does it… this sends him quickly over the edge. watching his eyes flutter shut in pleasure before hiding his head in the crook of your neck.

You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.

You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R. 

You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.

“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”

Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.

Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose. 

“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”

“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”

Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”

Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.

You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.

You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.

“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”

“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him. 

He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)

“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.

“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.

Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.

“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.

You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”

The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.

Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up. 

“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.

“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”

“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time—  Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”

“I wasn’t—”

A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.

The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)

“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.

You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip. 

“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”

You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.

“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”

Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments. 

You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Oh, my god—”

“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.

“—That’s what this is about?”

“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”

His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted. 

“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”

You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.

“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”

Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out. 

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.

Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours. 

“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”

“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff. 

Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.

“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”

You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.

Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers. 

In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.

“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”

“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”

“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.

You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song. 

Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.

“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”

You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”

“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”

“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.

Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.

Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”

“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”

His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”

“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”

Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter. 

You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”

“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.

Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.

You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”

The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.

“Jack,” you echo softly.

The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out. 

“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.

The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”

“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”

“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”

Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”

“Eh. Maybe a little.”

You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”

“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.

“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”

“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”

Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”

“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?” 

“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”

“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”

“Still counts.”

“Does it?” you squint.

Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”

“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”

You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more. 

“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”

Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”

Your eyes harden in an instant.

Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.

“It’s casual,” you tell him.

Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage. 

“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”

Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne. 

For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.

Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.

Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.

You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before. 

There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.

Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.

Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.

Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.

You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.

You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.

Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”

“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head. 

“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”

You exhale a soft laugh. 

Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’  today?”

“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”

“Brutal,” he scoffs.

“You’re fault.”

“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”

“No,” you answer instantly.

“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”

Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”

“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”

“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”

Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”

Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.

“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”

“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.

“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.

You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.

Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.

“Am I?” you hum.

“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”

“You usually only do that at my place.”

Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”

His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can. 

Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.

“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”

“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”

“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”

You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day. 

The realization hit him like a truck.

His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.

“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”

Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.

“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.

You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”

“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”

An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”

Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.

“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”

“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.

“Because being with him made me feel good—”

“I said alright!” 

“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”

Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.

Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”

“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is what I wanted—”

The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again. 

Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.

“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.

She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence. 

“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”

The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you. 

“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.

“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”

“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”

Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.

You couldn’t hide from him if you tried.

Finnick's always been in awe of you. You've slipped through the gaps he'd never been able to even peep through. Finnick's got about a billion words he would use to describe you — all of which slip his conscious right now — but he thinks that the tabloid titles are enough.

Unabashedly District.

This could've gone wrong for you, this whole strategy. You're beautiful, sure, you've got that going for you, but besides that, you're not as endearing as that Peeta Mellark kid is, not intriguing like Katniss Everdeen, you're not unfairly likeable like Finnick is, and you're definitely not as iconic as the Gloss-And-Cashmere-sibling-duo that's had the Capitol in a chokehold ever since the 63rd and 64th Games, that's for sure. You've got no star-crossed-lover-backstory, you don't appear in adverts and host parties, and you sure as hell aren't a counterpart in a dynamic duo. Hell, you've never even participated in the Games. That should have Snow reeling, that should have matches be lit after dousing your house in oil.

Yet... there's an invisible struggle between the two of you for the darling title. You'd first been spotted with Johanna Mason, as a little promo to show Panem what awaited a Victor of the Games, and what the Victor of the 71st was up to right after the Victory Tour. Well, with Johanna was a stretch. You'd been in a still of the town square, playing guitar with a couple other delinquent District 7 teens, and as Johanna passed by, you'd high-fived her. That was it. Thirty seconds of footage, thirty weeks of discussion, and thirty months of obsession. Although Snow seemed mildly opposed to putting a music group under the Panem spotlight, for whatever reasons he had, eventually you and your band were all the Capitol craved.

And boy, did you deliver.

So, yes, your paths had crossed at many a Capitol party, and Finnick had tried to figure you out. He likes to think he's the only one who's actually kept your interest long enough to have a proper conversation with you. No wonder Plutarch had deigned him with the impossible task of keeping you with him until he could come back from District 13 and properly speak to you about the Second Rebellion. How the fuck was he going to go about doing that, when he didn't even actually know you? The offhanded dating rumour aside, all you've shared was whiskey, a conversation, and a trauma bond.

He's been spiraling, Finnick has, and it's showing in his work. Every time he's in front of a camera, he's storming off, needing an entire hour of a break and a vodka, as well. He's grateful the directors do not get tired of him, that they all think he can do no wrong because he's Finnick Odair, because if they weren't like that, he'd have been fired ages ago. Or, at the very least, killed off. He hasn't been allowed to go home for nearly half a year, now, and it's probably the main cause of said spiral.

Thankfully, this spiral leads him to you, in this twisted bonding opportunity you two apparently shared — daydrinking.

"Long time, no see. You had a gig today, yeah?"

It's deafening in the silence of the desolate bar, and he nearly cringes, but he powers through, because you've just looked up at him.

"Yes."

"I thought you guys were awesome. Props.", he offers, his hand out in expectation. You shake it.

"Nice to see you again.", he tries.

You nod in return. "And you."

You seem distracted, so he follows your line of sight to the screen fastened precariously loosely to the back wall of the bar. Ah. The Victory Tour recap. You must've missed it, what with your performance here at the Capitol, so you're watching.

He leaves you be until District 7 comes, because he knows the nerve-wracking experience it is to watch the new Victor (in this case, Victors) rub it in your own District's face that their child is dead.

Finnick notices things, as always. He notices the layers of silences that permeate through the bar. He notices the disgusting taste of the beer he's just ordered. He notices the way you stiffen when one of the Victors mentions the male tribute from District 7. He notices how his instinct tells him not to speak, to allow you to feel this. He notices how his own lips part in direct disobedience to his gut. "Stele Mason. Is he related to Johanna Mason?"

You blink, seemingly snapping out of whatever horrific visions flashed past your eyes just then. "Wh— uh, no. There are lots of Masons back in 7."

"Oh. Did— do you... know him?"

You nod, turning to grab your drink, downing it. "Yeah." It's clipped.

Got it, he'll shut up now.

He stretches, inconspicuously leaning over and emptying the contents of his little pouch — courtesy of Plutarch — into your drink, before going back to normal and shrinking his attention back to his own.

He watches you drink it.

But then you order another. And another. And, oh, look at that, another. And soon enough, a spectacle that Finnick's been expecting — through mindfully quiet, restricted sips of his own drink — occurs. You're drunk.

And he doesn't know if this is because he's from District 4, or simply because he's Finnick, but he's drawn to shipwrecks like this, where the outside is perfectly preserved, all the pieces look put in place, but he knows that the inside of the ship's damaged. Floorboards have been sprung out of their places, the helm is cracked in two, and the engines are crashing in on themselves.

There ain't nothing he's ever been gravitated to that didn't require him to donate his own barely-functional parts to in order to get it started again, but he'll still do it, if to ease his own conscience and qualms about being a good person. He is, he hopes. He's always only ever wanted to be.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

You don't — can't — respond, and so he asks the bartender where your band is right now. He tries to find any sort of clues on you as to where your friends might be, or if you've been given a lodging to perform more. None. Nada. He's got a gnawing feeling all of this is thanks to Plutarch.

"Okay, up you get.", he mutters, hauling you up onto your feet, gripping onto the bar stool to support both of you as you suddenly dip down. "There we go, c'mon. I've got you."

He's got to get this bartender fired, he notes, internally. He'd just watched some girl get scooped up by a guy she clearly didn't know, and did fuck-all about it.

The walk to his flat's not far, by any means, but it is difficult, with a drunk girl — and her guitar case — in tow.

He flops you down on the bed, keeping his eye on you as he shoots across the room to his drawer, fishing out the white band Plutarch had given him, before gently fastening it around your wrist. He doesn't know what it does, — he'd just assumed it would be some form of tracking device.

Okay.

Finnick can breathe now that he's got the wristband on you. He's done his part, and he'll actively — to the best of his abilities — try to stop you from leaving before Plutarch says all he needs to say. But if you manage to lock him in a door and gnaw or saw the wristband off and leave? Well, then he'll be helpless and impressed.

He pads around his kitchen, grabbing a glass, opening the fridge, grabbing his juice, pouring it out. He doesn't drink it yet, though. A thought. The least he could do is play the gracious host. He's sure when you wake up, he'll look like the bad guy. And that's not him. Not who he wants to be. He takes out another glass. Pours some juice out for you.

Some time passes. He's eaten half his leftover pizza — saved the rest for you like the kind soul he is — and is currently nursing a glass of wine as he stares idly at the TV. God, for such a huge apartment, he perpetually feels like the walls are closing in on him. Today's no different, especially since he's day-drinking again. It's about eight, and he'd brought you home at about six-thirty. He's getting worried. You haven't woken up. Did the sketchy bartender also put something in your drink? Who would he be if he didn't go check?

He sets the glass down, stretches, and walks to the guest bedroom door. Tilts his head. He doesn't remember leaving it open. He'd closed it specifically so that he'd hear you coming. He knocks. "You decent?"

He'd hoped you'd have changed into the clothes he'd left out on the armchair if you'd woken up. But you don't respond. Meaning you haven't. Which is even more alarming.

Finnick presses his hand down on the handle, swinging it inwards to open it— fuck! That object — whatever the everloving fuck it was — just hit his stomach like a mother! Fuck!

Okay. So you're up.

He looks down. He did not know an alarm clock could pack that much pain, for being so compact.

He looks up. Yeah, no, they could, if thrown from a distance, and you're still next to the bed. Odd strategy, but it's okay, because you lower the hand holding your next launch-object — a fucking nightlamp — down when you see his face.

"Finnick?"

"Yeah. Nice to see you again."

"You spiked me?!"

"No, no! You just... kept going, with the liquor, I—"

"You spiked me!"

"I did not!" Little white lies, Finnick's learned, are better than teary eyes.

"What did you do to me?! Where's my coat?!"

"Nothing! And it's probably back at the bar!"

Not really. He'd accidentally torn it. The long sleeves had been fucking with his ability to get the wristband on you, so in a fit of rage, he'd grabbed a pair of scissors and got it off.

"So how am I here?! What did you do to me?! DON'T— Don't come near me!"

"I didn't fucking take advantage of you or anything, okay? That's not me! You passed out. I asked around, but no one knew where your band was, where you guys were staying! What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?!", he tries to explain, still needing to pause every two seconds and soothe his fucking abdomen, because of the alarm clock injury. God, he'd never live this down, if anyone found out.

You seem to believe him, and fully set the lamp back down, eyes still on him. "I don't believe you."

"You don't have to. This is just a misunderstanding."

"A misunderst— you abducted me!"

"I helped you! I—", he cuts himself off, running his hands over his face. "You don't need to trust me. Here.", he declares, tossing you the keys to the guest bedroom, as a last fucking resort. "You've had a long night. I think you should freshen up, and I'll get you food so you can get rid of the hangover. You probably have lots of gigs lined up at all the Hunger Games rewatch-parties, huh?", he suggests, voice softer, duplicitously so, but you don't need to know that. "My sister left some clothes here. Uh, so.", he adds, gesturing at the clothes he'd laid out on the armchair. "If you wanna get out of those."

He doesn't have a sister. These were left over from a Capitol afterparty that just had to — had to — be kept here, because what Snow wants, Snow gets.

You catch the keys mid-air, still glaring at him like he's done the things you're accusing him of. He knows what you're thinking. There's no guarantee he doesn't have another set. But he doesn't, and the fact that he's even given you these is a big deal. "I'll be out there making lunch-slash-dinner. Fuckin'.... linner. If you wanna join me when you're done.", he mumbles, gently closing the door behind him.

Fuck's sake, that was surreal. Though, he needs to applaud your survival skills. Soon as he gave you the keys, you held them between your fingers like claws. If he'd have come closer, even to set the alarm clock back on the bedside, he'd have had very nasty lacerations painting his body.

He should probably get to work on this linner thing, huh? Offering you heated-up-leftover-pizza was absolutely a kidnapper thing to do.

Pasta. Safest bet. He hasn't met anyone who didn't like it, and it was easy to make. Great. He's got some sauce leftover from a week ago in the fridge, and he'd heard it was 5-7 days, that was the accepted time to do so. Brilliant. Okay. Off to a good start.

He hears you before he sees you. He focuses on the pasta, because he's suddenly afraid that if he makes eye contact, your fight-or-flight will kick in again and he'll get the glass jar of pasta sauce that he's left out to cool thrown at him.

"I, uh..."

That'd better be a fucking apology.

"I need to go."

Or a statement that he can't allow to come true.

"Please. I feel really bad, for scaring you. Just... eat and then do whatever."

He's careful not to say 'and then leave', because he can't let you do that.

You're about to protest, but then you probably see the sheer desperation, mixed with fatigue pooling in his eyes, and then you nod, gingerly sitting at his dining table.

"What's this?"

"What's what?", he asks, though he already knows what. He deflects. "Oh. Yeah, bit of an alcoholic, I've become. But help yourself. It's really good stuff. I don't know what year it's from, but it's delicious. Here's a wine gl—"

"Not the wine, Finnick. This thing."

Yeah, the wristband. He turns, his face demonstrating tame confusion. "I dunno, thought it was some weird chic style-thing you had."

"Wasn't on before."

"Really? I remember it being on when I brought you home from the bar.", he says, with faux thoughtfulness. "You don't remember it? You were pretty out of it."

"I've never seen this thing before in my life. It— huh.", you grit, and he can tell it's through a clenched jaw, because you say his name with some effort. You're trying to get it off. "It won't come off."

"What? Hold on.", he mutters, turning the stove off before stalking over to you, at his dining table. "I'll help you."

He trusts Plutarch, so he genuinely does use all his might, all of yours, and even a spoon, to help pry it off, but it doesn't budge. "Is it hurting you?"

"No, it's just... I don't like it. It's mysterious and tacky."

"Killer combo, yeah.", he muses, rubbing his hand across the nape of his neck. "You'll need to have that surgically removed, I guess."

You groan, resting your palms onto the dining table, before looking up at him, slightly weirded out by his guilty lingering. "I'll live. Pasta's burning."

"Oh, fuck—" Finnick rushes back, slowing down when he sees the stove. Wait, he just turned it off. He hears the hurried footsteps, and pieces together that you're trying to run.

Then comes the scream. It's terrifying. If he had neighbours, they'd think he was killing someone in here. He dashes over to where you are — the door, and is met with the horrifying sight of you laying there, spasming and twitching.

And then he sees it. Your wristband. It's lit up.

Great, Plutarch Heavensbee had convinced him to put the equivalent of a shock collar on a human.

The pasta's steaming and forgotten.

The wristband's beeping and Finnick wishes it'd be forgotten.

You're fuming, and will probably be trying to remember details you have forgotten.

"Eat—", he begins, cut off by you throwing yet another plate full of pasta at the wall in a fit of rage. He closes his eyes, attempting to conjure up some strength. "Starving isn't going to help your state, honey. You're hungover and triggered."

"And fucking kidnapped! I'm not fucking eating your food!"

He fights the urge to say 'fine, do whatever the fuck you want then' because technically, he can't let you fucking die. He stands, not bothering to clean up what is the third bowl of pasta you have hurled across his living room, before scooping more pasta up from the pot and transferring it into a new bowl.

"This will stay right here.", he declares, placing the bowl at a safe distance from you on the kitchen island. "You can eat it when you want."

"What do you want from me?!"

"I told you, it's only until Plutarch comes back."

"You realize I don't know who the FUCK that is?! I have no way of knowing if this 'Plutarch' — stupid fucking name, by the way — character is even real! For all I know, there is no 'Plutarch from the Capitol who only wants a word'!"

Oh. Oh, fuck. Yeah, he hadn't realised that. You probably couldn't know he was real, because it's not like Finnick had framed photos of him around the apartment or tapes of him on his TV or anything.

"He's a Gamemaker?", he offers, gently. "Heavensbee?"

"I don't follow the fucking Games!"

He wishes you'd stop screaming, but it's not like he has neighbours who'd complain, and technically, you're well-within your rights to go apeshit on him. Still, he's got to match your energy if he's going to tire you out enough that he can gently explain that the fate of Panem depends on you chilling the fuck out until Plutarch gets here. "You were watching at the bar!"

"I knew Stele, so I paid my respects! What am I, not supposed to honour kids of my District who died because of a rebellion they weren't even around for?!"

There's a silence that he allows to slowly settle onto the apartment like a feather steadily falling from miles high. The rage was good. It meant you might be open to what Plutarch had to say.

"No.", he replies, evenly. "No, you can. But... for what it's worth, I didn't know the wristband would do that."

"Great comfort, Finnick!", you yell, clapping sarcastically and loudly. It's clear this is just a response to whatever imminent danger you think you're in, and probably stupid, considering that if he were a kidnapper, he'd have shut you up much more painfully.

"Okay, no need to be fucking annoying about it, okay? If I wanted to hurt you, I would've, but I haven't because I don't, alright?", he tries, for the last time. Honestly, if you don't start complying, he'll just leave the house and let you rot in there, until Plutarch comes . He's definitely not above that, and you know him enough to know that, too. Anything but you making him feel guilty for something he didn't even do.

"How about you j—"

The phone rings, and he narrows his eyes at you for one moment, before you sprint across the living room to it, picking it up and pleading into it, so much so that Finnick kind of feels bad for being pissed off at you. You're just panicked and trying to keep your life. He might feel a sickeningly embarrassing parasocial, delusional closeness to you because he's probably — maybe ; jury's still out — got a crush on you, but to you, he's just this guy you've spoken to a couple of times, some Victor-sellout. This is like the Games to you, except in a mildly claustrophobic apartment with only one other person who you don't actually know is going to kill you.

He stays where he is, picking up the cordless he has on the kitchen island, pressing a button with a tiny beep before the line's on speaker. Plutarch's voice comes steady from the other end. "Ma'am, you can calm down, I know, it must be scary for you—yes, but he won't hurt you, neither of us will. Trust me. I'm Plutarch Heavensbee, gamemaker, at your serv— can I speak to Finnick, please?"

He almost feels guilty, with how your face falls once you realise you're not getting rescued.

Finnick shakes his head, eyes still on you as he clears his throat. "Yeah, go ahead."

"I'll be there at dawn."

"Alright."

"Why is she so—"

"Give her a break, alright? It's a lot. Put yourself in her shoes."

"Take care of her."

"I will."

Beep. Finnick sets the phone back into place before he sighs, fingers drumming on the counter. "And he means actually take care of you. Like feed you, not eliminate you.", he tells you, eyes slowly travelling from the floor up to yours.

You look like hell.

"Plutarch is real, and I— I'm really not supposed to say anything, but if you want to know why we need your cooperation, I'll tell you. Over a nice bowl of sort-of-hot-pasta."

"You okay?"

"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay.", you mumble, before stuffing your mouth with pasta. He sighs, continuing his aggressive brooming to get even the most minute shards of broken bowl from your hurling-escapade off his beautiful hardwood floors. "You won't tell me anything concrete."

"I told you as much as I can."

"Oh, yeah — 'We need your help in something of national importance' is very—", you scoff, setting the pasta down, but fixing your gaze onto the muted TV, now playing static Reaping reruns like your own personal looping torture chamber. "That could be anything from a new gig to overthrowing the President."

Hey, he'll give it to you, you're smart. If this had been a game show like Tribute Trivia, you'd have gone home with the gold for how on-point your guess was. He pathetically tries wetting another washcloth and scrubbing his nail at the sauce on his walls, which, unfortunately, hadn't even remotely come off once in the past hour. Fine. Can't say he didn't try.

"Yeah."

"What do you mean, 'yeah', which one is it?"

"Which one do you think it is?"

"Well, you brought my guitar, so it could be the first.", you spit, sitting up on his couch, setting the pasta down. "But you also somehow hacked the phone lines so it's only incoming calls — from Plutarch — so it could also be the second."

Finnick stands at that, tossing the cloth into the washing before stalking over to the sink. "Who do you think I am?"

"A kidnapper."

"Yeah, I got that. I mean me. Who do you see in your mind when someone says 'Finnick Odair'?", he asks, running his hand under the faucet for a second before drying it.

You watch him make his way to the living room, watch the couch indent where he settles down onto it, opposite you. "I don't know."

"There's no right or wrong answer to this, honey."

"I don't know. You, I guess."

"Me, the person or me the concept?"

"You the concept."

"Right. But you know who 'me the person' is? It's a boy from District 4 that desperately misses the sea, and can't go a single day without a drink because he knows his District thinks he's a sellout. I hate the Capitol. That's who me-the-person is."

You bite the inside of your cheek, watching his face carefully for anything new. "Who from the District doesn't hate the Capitol?"

"I hate Snow."

"Again, you're not special, sweetheart. Everyone and their mother hates him. They just can't do anything about it because he's the President and he'll burn your house down or something."

He's not sure why this is turning into a competition. Maybe he needs it to feel like one, just so he can prove to you that he's not a sellout. That his being here, in this borderline kitschy apartment, has nothing to do with him. But to do that, to prove that he was deserving of your time, your trust, he'd have to tell you everything. And, uh, that's a bit above his pay grade.

So, new approach. He licks his lips, frowning down at you as he formulates his next sentence. "You know what I see when I see you?"

A subtle shake of your head.

"I see a promising young girl who refuses to give up her District identity for the Capitol. I see defiance. I see—"

"Oh, my god, you're trying to start a second rebellion." It's a whisper of surprise, a gasp of realisation, a musing of horror. "No, no, no, I'm taking NO part in this!", you yell, and he's standing up suddenly, trying to chase you away from the window, which may not be burdened by the same electrical field the door was.

Okay, he knew you were smart, but come on !

"Listen— hey! Listen before you refuse!"

"No, are you fucking insane?! I'm not putting my family on the line because some Capitol-bred Gamemaker wants to play god!"

"Plutarch is good! He's g— he's a good man, Y/N, alright? And we have the entire plan figured out. Entirely— hey, hey!", he grits, holding your arms over your chest so you couldn't flail about.

"I won't let you get more people killed! I won't do it!"

"We're making sure no one else gets killed, okay? We're not—"

"No! No, Haymitch warned me, he said Heavensbee tried this before, and—!" You're hyperventilating and he can feel tears on his sleeve.

"No, shh-shh. No. He failed, last time, but this time, we have something else, we have a Mockingjay, a poster, alright?"

"Who?!"

"Katniss Everdeen!"

"NO! She's a KID! You can't do that to her, no! I'll tell Haymitch!"

"He's IN ON IT! He knows! Everyone knows, and it's happening, everyone even JOHANNA is in on it, it's happening whether you like it or not! Okay?! Will you calm the FUCK down?!"

He doesn't like that you break down in his arms when he can't see your face and kiss your tears off.

He doesn't like that he genuinely doesn't know what to do anymore now that the lid is now blown off and you're less than impressed.

You're opposed.

Fuck.

Finnick thinks the lights of his apartment make you look younger. He thinks the stage lights that the Capitol sets up for all of your gigs and performances wash you out, age you up. He thinks his apartment's perfect for highlighting someone's actual age. The gold beams off your eyes and frames your face, like illuminating your youth.

It's been two hours. The sun's closer to rising , which is annoying, considering it was just about setting when he'd brought you home. Your silence does a very good job at illustrating the devastatingly consistent passage of time. Who cares if your world's crumbling around you? The sun will set. It will rise.

But he also thinks your silence is heavy, like you're holding back your words — no matter how sharp, how brazen — for someone more worth it. And all Finnick's wanted since he first laid eyes on you was to be worthy of your words, because you seem to have only valuable things to say.

"Hey."

"You're going to get that kid and her entire family killed. For some deluded dream of a free Panem."

Okay, whoa. You're not even giving him a minute to breathe.

"Hey. No. It's not like that. There were two Victors in the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, do you know how insane that is?", he asks, with a sort of fascinated hiss to his tone, as he wipes tears and probably fears off your cheek. "It's crazy, okay? You know that. But she managed it. She's a symbol of hope."

"She's a child!"

"So was I. So was Johanna. So was Stele."

"Hey!"

"I'm—", he states, moving back with his hands up defensively. "I'm just saying. It's children they're taking from us, so what if it's our children who take from them? Him?"

"Children.", you scoff, shaking your head as you pull away from the subtle proximate comfort you'd both created by being knee-to-knee on his couch. "So I suppose this Heavensbee character has hidden shit from you, too."

Huh?

"What? No."

"Next year's the Quarter Quell. What is it exactly that you think's 'special ' about the Seventy-Fifth Games, Finnick?", you ask, and he's suddenly mentally backpedalling because yeah, actually. Good question. Heavensbee hadn't even mentioned it. He had no clue.

"What do you know and how do you know it?"

"If you think Heavensbee is just talking about making Katniss continue this marriage facade in order to get the rebellion going, then you're an even bigger idiot than you are sellout.", you scoff. He clenches his jaw. Fine, you're hurt and scared and you can't really beat him up, can you? So, you're doing the next best thing, he supposes.

"I'm not a sellout."

"Yeah? Then why are you here blindly holding me captive for a man that's constructing a deathly Arena that he plans on throwing already-reaped Victors into?"

It's like the wind just stops, you know? A moment, that's all it takes, and all the air particles freeze. The pulse in Finnick's vessels dulls into a mild throb, the breaths he'd been sharply letting out now still and cease. Because he's... he's got to go back in. Into the Arena. Again. After a decade. He'll have to go in.

"Oh, this Heavensbee character didn't tell you that? How sad. Now you know how I feel. Hurts, doesn't it? When someone you trust fucks you over and traps you where you can't escape?"

"You trust me?"

It's silent, this question, and did nothing to demonstrate the internal turmoil he was undergoing at that very moment, what with the re-exposure to traumatic events and all, but it's potent, it's salient, to him.

"Well... yeah."

"Why?"

"You're real. I thought I told you this."

"No, actually, you told me I was a sellout, that you only saw me as a concept!", he snaps, shoving you to sit back down onto the couch. "So tell me, how do I know this isn't just manipulation to get me to turn on Plutarch?!"

"I don't give a fuck whether you turn on Plutarch, Finnick! But you better fucking know that it's that kid's blood on your hands if this deranged plan fails. It's hers, that kid Peeta's, Haymitch's, Johanna's, every other Victor in that arena, as well as every single person in Panem who'll be punished for your treason! That blood's on your hands!"

"You think you're the epitome of a clean conscience? Well, news-flash, honey, every time you pluck at that stupid fucking guitar for a Capitol asshole, or every time you take a countdown cue for the Capitol cameras, your hands are fucking painted with red! Alright?", he spits, kneeling before you to be eye-level to glare at you better as he holds your hands down onto his couch. "You think wearing your District 7 garb is some form of silent sticking-it-to-the-man? Ha. The man's loving this little show you're putting on, because it's making him fucking money, sweetheart. You're only helping the system!"

"FUCK off!"

"You're as culpable as we are, honey, but at least we are trying to do something. You're just drinking and performing. You're the worst parts of both Abernathy and Trinket. And I'm the sellout.", he scoffs, softly, his fingers playing delicately with some of your hair before he puts it over your ear.

Truth is, Finnick doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth, but it's better to yell and insult and tear into someone else's psyche than confront the fact that he's supposed to go right back into the Arena once again. Sure, he'll know the layout because Plutarch will tell him, but how many times can he lose himself? If it's not the Arena, it's the booze. If it's not the booze, it's darkened, sickening rooms with the Patrons, and if it's not that, it's... it's the Arena again, now. He no longer recognizes himself in the mirror, and chances are, he may never live to even see one again.

So he gently leans back against the coffee table a short distance away from you, and you're in the subtle proximate comfort of the knee-to-knee again, except he's on ground-level with his knees propped up to tether himself to yours. And the two of you just sit there. In the chaos of the promise of the whim of the possibility of an impending rebellion, an upcoming Games, and a potential mass murder that costs thousands of innocents their lives.

"I hate you."

"The feeling's mutual."

Another silence.

Then : "Do you actually think I'm real?"

"I don't talk to people I don't think are real."

"I'm not a sellout?"

"You're not a Capitol sellout. You're a Plutarch sellout."

Finnick's eyes snap up to yours, running between them like his salvation was stored in the salt of your tears. Then, a small crook of the corners of his lips. A snort. Then a laugh. "I can live with that."

It's funny because he won't. He won't live with that. He won't live at all.

"How did you know Stele?"

"I only became frontman after he died."

Whoa. Ouch.

"What was he? To you?"

"Everything. Who did you lose?"

"My District partner. She was everything to me, too."

This is rich. This is funny. This is ridiculous. This is devastating. Two minutes ago, you were at each other's throats, threatening each other's conscience, sanity, morality and integrity, and yet, here you are. Reminiscing over loss like you've lived through each other's worst phases.

"Are you still hungover?", he asks, after a moment, tired, spent, breathless, tame.

His spiral's come to an end. It's a cavernous pit of despair and he's got no rocks to throw to see how deep it is.

"Yeah."

"Oh, we can't have that, can we?", he asks, scrambling up and making his way to the liquor cabinet to fish out something to drink.

"At least we're not day drinking anymore. Cheers, us.", you mutter, running your hands across your face until it reaches into your hair.

He squints up at the clock. "Hey, look at that.", he remarks, sitting down next to you on the couch as he pours some out for you. "You okay?"

"No, Finnick, no, I am not okay. You just told me something far too concrete."

"Yeah, well, so did you. But I trust you.", he declares, holding his glass up to you. "Sellout or otherwise. You're District. And that's something. To selling out."

He waits. It'll kill him swiftly and painfully if you don't accept this olive branch. Your eyes — fatigued, sorrowful and oh-so-fragile — meet his as you clink your glass with his.

"To selling out."

The door opens, at nearly exactly that moment.

Clark tangles his fingers in your hair, fisting it and pulling you upright before he slides that hand down to your jaw. The grip he has on it, thumb on one cheek and the rest of his fingers on the other, is so tight that it squishes your face a little. You bite down on your bottom lip until there’s a faint hint of iron spreading over your tongue. You grab onto his wrist and dig your nails into his skin so roughly that, if he were a normal man, he’d start bleeding.

“God, I love this pretty little mouth of yours.” He smirks and gives your face a squeeze.

“It’d be even prettier if you could keep the damn thing shut,” Clark grumbles, running his thumb over your bottom lip, forcing your teeth to release it. 

He shoves his index and ring fingers into your mouth and collects some of your saliva, then slips that hand right down to where you two are becoming one so that he could draw tight, quick circles on your very abused clit. You cover your mouth with the hand that you had around his wrist, squealing into your own palm and squeezing your eyes shut as you fall apart much sooner than you thought you would. 

The stimulation, the grit in his voice, the way he’s manhandling you? It’s all too much. You didn’t stand a chance at keeping it together. Your entire body shakes as you come, your muscles convulsing uncontrollably while you sink your teeth into your skin, a desperate attempt at trying to quiet your moans so that you don’t get caught fucking in this public bathroom. 

You’re doubled over by the time you’re at the tail end of your climax. Clark groans, shuddering as he sinks his cock even deeper into you because of your body’s new angle beneath him. He clicks his tongue at you when he notices you don’t have your eyes on yourself in the mirror anymore.

“Did I say you could look away? Open those eyes, pretty girl. Don’t make me open them for you.” 

His voice was rough, but the grip he has on your throat when he forces you back into an upward position is rougher. Almost as rough as the deep thrusts he hasn’t eased up on despite the fact that you just came. You open your eyes and he sends you a wicked grin through the mirror when you meet his. The red in them is still so prominent.

“That’s right. There you are. You’re gonna watch yourself come this time, you understand?” 

Your face floods with the heat of humiliation and need. You can’t even respond to him with anything other than a nod and a self-strangled whimper. Opening your mouth right now is a death trap; you’ll scream his name and ruin your whole operation here. You might get yourselves fired if you get caught and it gets back to the Planet, which means you’d never be able to do something like this again. 

Can’t take that risk. 

Your pussy flutters and tightens around him from his filthy mouth alone. He’s a nasty motherfucker whenever he’s been around red kryptonite, and you adore it. Clark laughs at you. It’s mean, because he’s always mean when those beautiful blue eyes of his are bright red. All it does is make your walls clench around him again. 

He leans forward, breath fanning out against the shell of your ear when he purrs, “You like it when I’m rough with you, huh? Can’t believe you’ve been hiding that from me. You’re making a mess all over yourself, sweet girl. Squeezing my cock every time I manhandle you or fuss at you. Dirty little thing.”

He’s not lying. You’d be diagnosed clinically insane if you denied it. The way you’ve essentially gone non-verbal in his arms and the lewd sound of your wetness ringing out in this room would give you away no matter how convincing the denial would be. 

You’d have responded to his dirty mouth if he didn’t make your brain blue-screen when you felt him drag his tongue up the side of your neck—from the junction where your shoulder meets your neck all the way up to your jaw. Your eyes roll back into your head and, unfortunately, you let out a moan so loud that it probably made the mirror shake. It’s not like you could see it. You were too busy dealing with the stars exploding in your line of sight after you almost went cross-eyed in his arms. 

Clark’s smirk burns against your pulse point. Burns almost as much as when he pulls his hand away from your throat, uses it to roughly slap your ass while he fucks into you, and says, “Can’t have you going dumb on me just yet, sweetheart. Come on back.” 

“Feels s’fucking good, Clark,” you slur. The tears that had been burning your lash lines start to spill down your cheeks. Clark wraps his arm around your waist and nuzzles his face in your neck, leaving wet, opened-mouth kisses all over your skin. It’s his attempt at keeping you here with him, keeping you steady and grounded, while his own thrusts get sloppy. 

It’s not long before both of his hands are at your waist, fingers digging into your skin so harshly that you know you’ll have bruises there within the hour. A tell-tale sign that he’s about to come. Clark gives you a few more sloppy pumps of his hips, ramming against the soft, sensitive spot deep inside of you and earning a weak final orgasm out of you because of it. More of a whisper than a bang, and yet still enough to make you shake and have your vision black out at its edges. 

You do as he commanded earlier and watch yourself in the mirror while you’re flung into what you hope is your last orgasm in this bathroom. 

“That’s it. Just like that. You’re always so pretty when you come, angel.” The gentle coo of his voice is so comforting that you could cry. Again.

As you’re whimpering and gushing around him, Clark buries himself into you to the hilt and completely stills. He bites down on your shoulder where he had pushed your shirt sleeve down to gain access to more of your skin earlier. It mutes his shaky moan as he spills his load into you.

You reach back and tangle your fingers in his hair as he comes down from his own high. With a soft tug, you pull his head out of your neck and twist your upper half so you can kiss him for the first time since you got in here. The kiss you share is slow and deep. There’s no clashing tongues or clicking teeth. Just a gentle ebb and flow of your lips while they slot together like a set of perfect puzzle pieces. 

Clark breaks the kiss when he pulls out of you. He gifts you a dorky, satisfied smile. When he looks into your eyes, you’re so fucking relieved to see the red has started to fade. It’s still there, but there’s more blue in them than red. Something you can count as a win, something that pours relief over your worried soul. You kiss his cheek and push out an exhausted sigh when you fall back into him.

He wraps his arms around your waist and presses a kiss onto your temple. You spend the next few minutes straightening out your clothes after he cleans you up. Clark has to actually fasten the button on his blazer because you popped a couple of the buttons on his shirt clean off. There’s a bright pink blush spreading over the bridge of his nose and bleeding into his cheeks as he watches you throw some of your hair over a hickey he left on your neck. 

“I’m sorry that I was so mean and—and careless. I hope I didn’t upset you, honey.”

His apology is sweet. Incredibly sincere, as he always is. It falls on deaf ears, though, because you roll your eyes, give him a quick, featherlight kiss on the lips, and tell him what you always tell him whenever he gets weepy over being a little rough with you:

“Shut up, Clark. I love you.” 

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