#thg fics

Finnick can sense the anxiety that swirls in the eyes of your mother, Viscountess Beaumont, her visage hidden underneath the gaudy fan she often brought with her. An ivory handheld fan, with the Beaumont family emblem carved into its sticks and lined with a bold gold. On its wide leaf holds an unfamiliar scene, a painted portrait of your family dancing in a gala, which he realizes is the recent one your mother held. A mere object, acting as a shield. But also, as a show of power.

Power drips from her confident posture, yet it cannot fully stifle the murmurs— of the mothers eager to send their newly debuted daughters off to potential husbands of whom they eye like hawks and treat the viscountess as a foe tonight; of the gentlemen who swivel their heads around to try and catch a dance with the special lady who caught the queen’s attention. 

It is not often that not many are looking for him, given that he had already turned so many debutantes away for the past two years— so, he slips away easily outside the garden of the royal palace.

There is a rose maze, with hedges as tall as he was, and he decides for a quick walk. The greenery under the moonlight’s kiss eases his mind with its serene ambience. He was alone, for once. Finnick could rarely stand the talks that the ton’s gentlemen tried to initiate. All to scout for wives they would eventually loathe. All to speak of families they would eventually see as burdens.

But not for him. Finnick wanted to marry for love, as cliche as it sounded. The women would call him a romantic, but the men would laugh at his face and call him a fool. He had learned to keep such sentiments to himself, that sharing vulnerable pieces of him would only be picked apart by lingering vultures.

He breathes in the evening air deeply, letting the cold air linger in his lungs before he exhales softly. Finnick’s attention snaps in another direction, however, when he hears a grunt at the edge of the maze. The night makes it nearly difficult to distinguish the figure, but the gown of a lady is unmistakable. The sight nearly makes him burst with unbridled laughter.

It was the queen’s favorite of the season, attempting to use the uneven bricks and growing vines to haul yourself over the wall.

It was you again.

“Your form is absolutely horrible, my lady. You look like an untrained rider attempting to mount a horse.”

—

Diamond of the season. An accursed title, really. It weighs heavily on your shoulders. It suffocates like a thick blanket— traps your body underneath expectations and envy. You question the court’s overuse of it after Lady Whistledown deemed a lady from the Bridgerton House the ‘diamond,’ but you never thought it would be directed towards you.

‘You must be perfect,’ your mother’s voice dwells in your mind. The eldest, the first daughter, and the experiment. Meant to become the blueprint of your sisters’ performances and the epitome of comparison your brothers will make for their future wives. You do not comprehend your body’s will to escape, yet your mind follows its wants anyway. ‘A breath of fresh air,’ was your excuse to your mother— a lame one, but your mother’s eyes softened for a moment.

Return before the queen’s arrival, she reminded you. Though she might not express it, moments like these show her concern for your wellbeing. A quick slip through the cracks— a quick walk through the garden, that was it. Was supposed to be it.

Then a chance presented itself at the end of the rose maze. The wall, with weathered color and bricks that jut out in an unsightly manner, with vines that have made themselves home inside the cracks. How hard would it be… to climb the wall? It was just a few feet taller than you.

Fuelled by the sudden urge to escape through an unconventional manner, rather than just running to your family carriage, you put the toe box of your high heels into the crack. Carefully, your gloved hands grip onto another jutted out brick and a vine, and lift yourself up. For all this effort in hoisting yourself up with your expensive dress, you only manage to reach one foot away from the ground, before a familiar voice cuts through your focused mind.

“Your form is absolutely horrible, my lady. You look like an untrained rider attempting to mount a horse.”

“Oh God—” With your heel stuck, the duke’s appearance takes you by surprise. You, with all the grace you could even manage at the moment, took your foot out from the high heel, leaving you with one shoe. Embarrassment creeps up your spine as you shamefully retrieve your other shoe from the wall and wear it again.

“Duke Odair,” with a polite tip of the head forward, “it is a… wonderful evening tonight. Why are you not inside with the rest of the ton?”

Finnick’s smile only broadened at your attempt of deflecting the situation. “I could ask you the same, my lady.”

You bit your lower lip, acceptance in your face that his presence was not one you can ignore. “... I fear the queen’s… diamond— wants to go home.” The distaste for the title remains on your tongue.

“The party has yet to start? And… your mother looks as if she is close to bolting out of the party just to search for you.” God, your mother was still inside. You curse in your mind, yet keep on a small polite smile.

“I shall return in a moment.”

“May I ask why you are so eager to leave? Being the queen’s favorite this season is every debutante’s dream, is it not?” Pure curiosity was present in his voice.

There is hesitation that makes your heart palpitate— would he even understand your thoughts? “It is a burden for me, this— this title. I would have to entertain suitors everyday until I settle on a husband, and I do not want that.”

He pauses, his enchanting sea-green eyes studying your face, before he offers. “But a suitable gentleman can provide for you.” Finnick’s posture straightens, interest now piqued.

“... Can that gentleman provide me with my freedom?”

“I’m sorry?”

You breathed in slowly, for once, feeling the corset around your torso dig into your skin. Senses were heightened, as you tried to choose your words carefully. “Once I fully acknowledge being the incomparable of the season, it will uproot my very being. Tell me, Lord Odair— does the ton accept a woman who favors being outspoken, prefers to be involved in running their household, and wishes to travel outside of England— alone?”

Your reply only makes his breath catch in his throat, admiration clear on his countenance. “... No, my lady.”

“Then you can understand my predicament.” Your shoulders slump in relief.

Finnick clenches his palm near his torso, the other placed behind his back. “I—” he starts, “... might not fully grasp the intricacies for I am not a woman myself. However, I am willing to learn, and I wish to do that with you.”

“With… me?” You look winded with his reply. Rarely have you ever seen someone who still wanted to pursue a lady, despite being told of your real character— with words that would have had your name dragged into the mud.

This time, it was him who bowed slightly to you, an attractive smirk curving on his lips.  “Indeed. If you would allow me to do so, I would like to call on you, and… get to know you more, beyond your family name.”

“... This is the first time I have heard of a gentleman willing to listen, much less to a woman.”

“Perhaps, I was enchanted by your failed escape earlier. You seem like a remarkable woman, my lady. It would not be wise of me to let this chance slip by. If I displease you, though, you are free to tell me and I will not hold it against you.” He holds his palm up— an invitation.

“You are quite… odd, Lord Odair.” Yet, you slip your gloved hand into his, the warmth of his skin radiating through the lace.

“I will take that as a compliment. Would you like to return inside for a dance?”

Your gaze shifts, pretending to study the blooming roses around you, a mischievous glint appearing in your eye. “I believe my dance card is still devoid of ink.”

“...All of them?”

You send him a cheeky smile, raising your untouched dance card hanging on your other wrist.

Finnick’s smirk blooms into a genuine smile, the dimples on his cheeks appearing more prominently. “Reserving your dances for myself the whole night would seem quite selfish to the ton, but… I am not opposed.” He leans down and presses a fleeting kiss on your knuckles, the lingering heat from his lips sending a shiver down your spine.

“I prefer listening to the lovely lady in front of me.”

Finnick pushes the door to the Sheriff's office open, spurs clanking along the wooden floor as he meanders over to the notice board to check for any new bounties.

The Sheriff was an aged man, with crows feet lining the corners of his eyes and white strands overcoming what once must've been a mop of brown hair. He had a lazy eye that made it hard to pinpoint exactly where he was looking, but Finnick could tell his good eye was tracking him suspiciously. Right. This is his first time in the city, so it makes sense the man doesn't recognise him.

“Don't worry, I'm just lookin’ for some extra cash.” Finnick reassures him. The Sheriff lets out a bemused huff before turning back to his stack of paperwork. Finnick picks a flier off of the wall. Sixty dollars to bring back some criminal dead or alive. Pretty easy money. Finnick put one hand on his hip as he inspected the flier, bottom lip jutting out as he focused on the inking detailing the charges and last known location.

Last seen near— The flier disappears from his hand, snatched away by a bandit. His head swivels to the right, mouth dropping open in exasperation before clamping shut when he sees–

“You.” He seethes.

You give him a toothy smile, pulling the brim of your hat down. “Me.”

“You– you stole my bounty! I got it first!” Finnick pushed down all of the memories surfacing in his brain.

“Well it's mine now. Not yours. So beat it!” You snap your jaws at him.

The sheriff looks up from his paperwork, scrunching his nose to push his spectacles up. “Stop squabbling or I'll throw the both youse out.” He said gruffly.

You hum, spinning on your heel to face the sheriff.

“I'm mighty sorry for the disturbance, sher’, but it's just that… you said I get dibs on any bounty that comes up here, right? And well, I think I should be the one to get this bounty, I'm more capable after all…”

“No you ain't!”

“Shut up, Finnick.”

The sheriff furrows his brows. “Either the both of you take it and split the money, or you get out. Yer makin’ a fool of yerselves.”

Finnick huffs. He glances at you, then at the poster. “Fine.” He relents. He turns to you. “But don't think we'll be working together forever after this. This is a one time deal, got it?” He shoves his finger towards you. You slap it away. Who did he think you were? Some kind of idiot?

“Fine! Deal!” You storm out of the office, the creaky door slammed behind you.

Finnick sighs, brushing a hand through his hair. He pulls his hat back on and walks out, squinting against the sunlight. Buttercup shakes her head disapprovingly at him, tossing her freshly braided mane back.

“Got a new horse, did’ya?” You comment snidely. Your shire towered over his thoroughbred, yours looking all imposing and majestic and whatever and his looking… disobedient.

“What's it to you?”

“Nuffin, just making an observation.” You fit your foot into the stirrup, swinging one leg over the saddle. “Your old one was prettier.” Buttercup whinnies.

“Whatever.” Finnick settles onto his horse, taking out his water flask to take a few big gulps from it.

“So where's this guy at?” The wind picks up, red dirt flying around you like dust. You pull your bandana up.

“North. Just follow me.”

“Last time I did that we ended up fifty miles from where we was supposed to be.”

Finnick glares at you, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Fine, here's the flier, figure it out yerself.” He crumples it up and throws it at you. You catch it, unfurling the paper.

“Heyyy,” You jab your finger into the flier, “I know where this bastard is! Keep up.” You grin at him, eyes crinkling beneath the bandana. Your horse kicks off into a trot, speeding up to a canter, not waiting for Buttercup to keep up. Finnick groans, starting to follow you.

The wildgrass thickened, red dirt giving way to yellow weeds and rabbits, fat as spring started and they burrowed out from their dens. You wove around them as they hopped along the track, letting go of the reins of your horse to check your map.

“We're pretty close now.” Buttercup stepped on a twig and let out a whine. “What's wrong with ‘er?” You jut out the bottom of your chin, looking at his horse with disdain.

“Nothing. Just a new horse, that's all.”

“She's as prissy as you are, miss Odair.”

“Very funny.” Finnick pat Buttercup's mane and fed her a sugarcube. The path descended down a steep hill, before completely disappearing into weeds. His horses' hooves clicked against the pebble riverbed, the rushing water spray onto his pants.

“Cross the river here, shouldn't be too shallow.” You pulled the reins, your horse steering right, making no fuss as it crossed the water.

Unlike Finnicks. He had to lightly kick its side three times before it started to trot, even then it stopped at random.

You take your hat off, turning back to see what all the fuss was about. You snort at the sight. The bottom half of Finnick's chaps were already wet, and Buttercup was stomping along the river with the grace of a newborn deer, her spindly ankles bending left and right. Finnick had long since stopped controlling her reins, opting to get bounced along the saddle, surviving on the hope that his horse would get him across.

“I reckon it'd be easier to swim across, no?” You chuckle. Your horse tosses its black head, boring over Buttercup. “Why are you even putting up with this one anyway? just set it free or sell it if I were you. Though I don't think any fence would have her.” You swing your right leg over the saddle, crossing your legs as you perched side-saddle.

You used to sit on his saddle like that once.

Finnick scoffs. “I just got her.” Buttercup eventually makes it to the other side and gets steered to stand beside your stallion.

You take him in. The freckles in the same place as they were before, the same cut below his ear, the same blue eyes, the same soft-looking hands. Chipped fingernails, speckled knuckles and the same bronze hair that never laid flat. Finnick looked at you, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to place your gaze.

You clear your throat. “You should leave your horse here. She'll probably get freaked out by the gunshots. It's a bit of a climb anyhow.” You snap out of it, dragging your gaze to the river. It placates your heart.

Finnick squints at you, before eventually hopping off of his horse and hitching it to a spindly tree branch. You do the same, and begin making the trek uphill. It rained last night, so everything smelled of damp earth and your boots skid against the muddy grass ever so slightly. When you stepped over a rock, your spurs got caught on the stone, scratching along its surface and making you stumble, the tail end of your boots becoming drenched in dirt. Finnick grabbed the back of your collar to keep you straight. You looked back and brushed his hand off, narrowing your eyes.

Finnick bristles, brows twitching downward. You start moving before he can address it.

The two of you reach a vantage point well covered by a canopy of trees, boots squelching as the grass thinned out. “Well…” You adjust your hat and brush dirt from your pants. Flared black jeans now, the slit on the side of them was replaced with red triangles of fabric stretching up to your calves. “I'll head down first, try and get close while I'm distracting him and then pow, lasso. ‘Kay?” You rest your hands on your hips, waiting for his response.

“Aye aye.” Finnick crouched down, already taking his lasso out.

“Good lad.” You brush his boot with the tip of yours before heading down.

You went quite far down the mound, so he couldn't hear you well. Finnick approached as light-footed as he could, controlling his breathing as he found a point just behind a tree, taking a pause to catch his breath. He craned his ears to listen, before peeking around the tree just in time to catch the bounty throwing a punch at you the second your hand went to your hip.

Your boots stumble, spurs digging into the soft dirt as your hand shoots up to clutch your jaw. “What in the–” you gasp in pain, gaze shooting up at the bounty. His hand shoots to his back pocket to pull out a knife. The pointed end facing you. You bristle, hand shooting forward to try and disarm him as your fingers trap around his wrist, directing his hand away from well– stabbing your face. His arm juts forward, blade cutting the sleeve of your shirt… piercing skin. You can feel the wind bite into the cut, air swimming in and out of your exposed muscle. You grit your teeth, and call Finnick’s name, throat scratchy in need of water.

Your hand drops from his wrist as Finnick's rope wraps around the bounty’s stomach, knocking him to the ground. You wrestle the knife from him and hogtie his arms and legs, looking down at his sullen, putrid, rotting face. The sagging skin and yellow under-eyes. You kick his stomach, before letting Finnick throw him over his shoulder. You whistle to call the horses.

The numbness in your shoulder subsides, replaced with a pain so sharp it made you see stars in the morning sky. Or maybe it was the punch you took to the face. You stumble, clutching your shoulder. Your hand comes away soaked in blood.

“You okay? Let me look at that.” Finnick jogged up to you after hoisting the bounty onto the back of his horse.

You try to apply pressure on the gash but it makes the pain worse, like every particle, every atom making up your tendons was burning up in pain. “I'm fine, just a flesh wound,” you wince, eyes shutting tight as your body turned to Finnick out of reflex, head dropping forward.

“Woah woah–” His hand came to the nape of your neck, dropping slightly to where your ribcage started. You kept your eyes shut as he pulled his gloves off and searched his satchel for some kind of bandage. “Was getting socked in the face a flesh wound too?” He pulled out a bit of scrap fabric, pressing it to your cut.

You bite your lip. “I'll be fine.”

“I'm sure you will be, I'm just trying ta make sure ye don't get light-headed from blood loss.”

You scoff, “when did you become such a doc–”

“Stop talking.”

You furrow your brows, opening your eyes to look at him. He was holding the fabric against your cut, tying it around your arm like a band. You grit your teeth, taking deep breaths as your eyes fell to wherever was comfortable, to his jaw. Your jaw hurts like a bitch.

“Yer eye is swelling.” You blink at him squintily.

“I'm sure it is. You done?”

“Yep. I can stitch you up when we get back.”

“Ion need stitches.” You rub your jaw, turning away from him as you mount your horse, running your fingers along her mane to soothe yourself.

You stayed on the step outside the Sheriff's office while Finnick turned in the bounty and collected the money. You brought your knees closer to you, head resting on them as you listened to the horses gallop by and the workmen speak amongst themselves. The front door chime rang, along with Finnick's familiar bootsteps as he sat down beside you.

He didn't say anything first, letting the silence settle. Not a comfortable silence, one filled with laughter and love that you'd shared a few moments prior. This was the silence you learned to hate. After a job went wrong, when you didn't have any music to put on at home. Silence that made you marinate in it.

“Ya ever miss it?” Your head shot up. You immediately get dizzy and flinch before turning to Finnick.

“Miss what?” Finnick looked away from the street.

“Before.” You hope that narrowed it down.

Finnick's expression changes, like a sort of melancholy clarity came over him. He stretched his legs out. “Back when we used to die about a thousand times in a day?” He paused. “No, not much.”

“Weren't it more fun? Out in the wild, no one to answer to, no law to think of… jus’ shootin’ for yer food and yer money.”

Finnick stays quiet, just looking at you. Like he wanted to memorize your face, the ridges of your cheekbones and your lips and the bumps and nicks and scars that made you… you. He knew the story behind each one, too.

“What?” You chuckle.

Finnick swallows. “You sure you miss that? And not somethin’ else?”

Your breath catches. “Well– I miss havin’ new names and personalities all the time. Like an actress.”

His gaze softens from exhaustion. “And nothin’ else?”

“Finnick…” You sigh. “You know I can't.”

“Cause it's not true?”

“Cause you know it already.”

He does. Like the back of his palm. Like a newspaper article about him. Like the way you like to wake up in the mornings, with a cup of coffee right by you. Like the way you prefer mares to stallions. Like the way you prefer freshwater to the bottles in stores. Like the way you replace your lasso all the time. Like the way you don't let any fabric go to waste. Like the way you choose clothes that fit you just right. Like the way he loves you. Like the way you love him. Like the way he misses you and you miss him and– oh, how hard it is to live without you– and oh, how he misses those canvas tents and the cold of spring and how he always made sure you had extra blankets cause your feet were always cold and–

“I do.” He does know it. He knows you love him, cause it's the only thing worth knowing.

You sniffle. “Why'd you hafta come here?” His heart freezes. “I was fine without ya.”

“You ruin everything.”

He blinks, the soft pads of his thumbs wiping away the tear from your cheek. “Don't– don't say that.” His heart feels small, stuck in his throat

“But you do. I hate thinkin– thinking about you.” You clear your throat. Finnick's hands pause and cup your cheek. Your shoulders shake.

“You gettin’ married?” The words barely leave his lips. He's afraid you won't catch them, cause he doesn't have the strength to repeat them again.

“...”

His hands are so cold. You shove them away from his face and push yourself to your feet, pulling on your hat. He calls your name. You don't stop, even for a step. Finnick practically falls over from how quickly he gets up, tripping over his feet and an exposed tree root. “Wait.” He murmurs, you keep walking. “Wait– please. Wait,” he's louder, but his voice won't carry over the bustle of the town. He's running, weaving around carriages just to cross the street to you, kicking up dust beneath his soles. “Come on, you can't be serious.”

You're slowly unhitching your horse. “Please, doll, you can't just leave like that…” He grabs your shoulder, turning you around.

“Why don't you get it, Fin?” You shove him away.

He flinches, shoulders sagging with guilt. “Is he nice to you? Keeps you happy?” You glare at him, at his scrunched nose and furrowed brows and the anger pulsating through him.

“It shouldn't matter to ya.”

“But it does!” He throws his hands up in exasperation. “You're the one that doesn't get it!” He walks towards you. “I love you, I love ya so much it fucking hurts– and you love me. You're just– running!”

You move your hand to grab your horse's saddle but he stops you, fingers around your wrist. “Ya can't possibly want this. You don't want this.” He closes the distance. “When am I gonna see you again? When you're forty and you've sold your guns and you have three kids and you're miserable?” Your gaze softens, and you pull your hand away. And he lets you.

“Finnick–”

“No!” He closes his eyes tight. “You know this ain't right. Yer throwing away all you love for this– this guy?” His throat is so dry, straining to find the words.

“I need to go, Finnick.”

You turn away from him.