etherealily

[etherealily]

hiatus for personal reasons 💗

the next things I post will all be queued and will be completing reqs 💗

moots please tag so that I get notified ; I don't want to miss your works if I can help it

[etherealily]

Ok but Tom strikes me as the type of guy to love having his back scratched or rubbed or having his hair played with or brushed like he is instantly falls asleep if he’s having a bad day and y’all are laying in bed just rubbing his back or scratching it instantly calms him down and has him knocked out. If he’s super agitated and you play with his hair just know he will melt and will be hugging you from behind and whispering sweetly to you like when I say back rubs and hair pulls are like this man’s kryptonite I mean it so much

Melting men mention 🗣️🗣️

Yeah, I avoid this in my writing, but unfortunately it is incredibly apt here.

When he's pissed, just brush some hair from his eyes, and watch as his anger vanishes. "Fucking stop."

"Stop what?"

"That. It's fucking annoying."

And yeah, he has loads of bad days (subjective, but let it slide) and guess who he's calling, no matter how many miles away.

"What? Baby, I don't care where you are, I'll book you a fucking helicopter, just come."

When you do get there, you're bombarded with stories about how fucking unfair the industry is nowadays and "baby, you're gonna be so mad when you hear what they fucking said to me", and you're supposed to rub his back as he plays with the hem of your shirt

And as I said he's not huge on making out, so if you're standing and he comes up behind you, he'll be kissing your shoulder to distract you from how he's slowly lifting your arm up and gently placing your hand on his hair.

Sometimes all the chamomile tea in the world wouldn't hold a candle to your fingers drawing soft arcs on his cheek or his hair

[etherealily]

ꜱɪʀᴇɴ // ꜰʀɪᴇᴅʀɪᴄʜ ʜᴀʀᴅɪɴɢ

Friedrich Harding + fem!reader.

For @wintrsoul, based on this ask <3

I hope this is what you meant. If it sucks, or is not what you expected, tell me.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You torment his sleep.

(Friends-to-lovers on this blog will always be associated with pebble-throwing.)

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

At times, Friedrich would birdwatch.

And, at other times, he would stargaze.

Both during test-sails with his father on a new ship, and both, of course, during different times of day.

Sometimes, the journey would last as long as three days, perhaps even four, just to ensure the ship could hold out against strong currents, and the lights were strong enough for the unforgiving night sea.

And Friedrich could name nearly every sea-bird. And could possibly find his way home with the North Star, if ever.

The best part of all this new knowledge was that he was able to give it to you. He would write you letters, deposit them at every port, and grin, because he knew it was killing you, not being able to write back and give him proper comebacks to whatever tiny insults he'd peppered in as compliments, just to pull your leg.

So, no, to answer the unasked question, he was never surprised when you jumped into his arms and nearly toppled him over on his return, before hitting at his chest for all the things he'd implied about you.

"How dare you call me an owl?"

"They're wise, you know?"

"You spoke of my eyes!"

"The ink must have bled. I'm sure I said 'wise'." A smirk.

"What about calling me—"

"Must we regale the tales of your illiteracy? I know what I wrote, and perhaps you read what you think is true. Come. We could rematch."

He was always better at skipping stones than you were, having had practice since as far as he could remember. But would he tell you? No.

"Did you come across pirates?" You always asked this, and he always answered in the negative.

"If I came across pirates, I would not live to tell the tale.", he scoffs, flicking at your temple. "Use that brain of yours to ask me genuinely valid questions about my time out there in the world."

"Did you see mermaids?"

He chortles. For all your newfound womanly qualities after introduction to society, you're still the same. "Mermaids? They do not exist, never will."

"Oh, please. You're a man of science."

"Precisely my reasoning for choosing not to believe in aquatic women with fish tails that lurk waters and lure men to their deaths with their singing."

"Those are sirens. You are confusing them."

"I apologise for my insubordination. I'm confusing two fish-like female species of underwater monsters.", he scoffs. "Flog me now."

"For the longest time, the world was thought to be flat, by men of science. Flat, can you imagine such a thing! And if you are a man of science, you might not be so quick to dismiss the possibility of forces that we do not understand.", you declare, launching another pebble, that galloped prettily across the lake.

He glares (gazes) at you for a while, before exhaling in contempt. "Adolescence does not agree with you. You've suddenly developed audacity enough to back-talk. With mildly valid points, though, I will admit. And not to mention, your eyes."

"Adolescence does, too, agree with m— what do you mean my eyes?"

Friedrich narrows his own at that moment, before bending down to pretend to meticulously analyse yours. "They've gone all..." A vague gesturing around them. "Wonky."

"Wonky?"

He nods.

"They're prettier, sure, but also wonkier."

If you'd known that would be the last time you'd be seeing him in two years, you'd have focused more on the 'prettier' comment.

"I have news."

"Yes?"

"I am travelling once more, I'm afraid."

"Ooh, will you stay gone for good, this time?", you ask, in faux-hopefulness.

"You are not as hilarious as you think you are. I know you miss me when I am away.", he mutters for only your ears, as he bites his lip in concentration before launching another stone out.

"Do I, now?"

"Oh, yes, you're always yearning so loudly inside that it reverberates across continents, across oceans, and disrupts my otherwise peaceful sleep in my little cabin on my big ships.", he huffs, as though this was anything but hyperbole, as though this is a complaint he's had for years, but has been too afraid to bring up to you.

"So what you say is, I torment your sleep?"

"Like nothing I've ever known before."

A mutual grin.

"How long?" He cannot tell you "two years" without you worrying, he's sure.

"Negligible. The real big news is that I will be renting out."

"No."

"Yes. Mother thinks one can never have too much money, and you know, I quite agree. I'm adding another source of income.", he whispers. A pause. "Do, um, excuse me." He clears his throat for a moment, looking down into the sherry he'd brought outside. "Do... do you approve?"

Another pause.

"How does it matter if I approve?"

"Well, it doesn't, of course, but had you said 'no', it would have fuelled me to go along with it. You know how you are wrong about every single thing in the universe, yes?", he titters.

"Right, of course. And another stream of income will increase your chance of procuring a good marriage, yes? Blind, though she may be, status is what matters.", you declare, snorting at his annoyed nudge.

"She will not be blind, you know. She will see me for the handsome, smart man I am, and... well, let's just say the money will only be an additional incentive for her." A waggle to his brows.

"One day, Friedrich. I shall have the self-confidence you so unjustly possess."

"And one day, you shall beat me at skipping stones.", he whispers, flicking at your temple.

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

TWO YEARS LATER.

He's not sure what it was he expected, in all honesty. Perhaps he thought the entire manor would be refurbished and every trace of him would have been swept away with the wind, or perhaps he'd imagined coming home to a haunted house, a desolate shell of what his childhood had been nurtured by. But no. It's the exact same, even brighter than he remembered it.

Thankfully, he has not been forgotten and it shows. The maids greet him the same, the doors open with the same vigour for him. And so, he sits on the couch, before a hurried shuffle is heard, and he's being greeted by a young man, younger than him — your age, he'd wager — with a firm handshake. "Herr Harding, sir, it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine, Sebastian Schneider, yes, if I am not mistaken?"

"Quite right, sir. I must thank you for opening up your home to us."

"It is all my family's doing, I'm afraid. They had to ensure the home was in good hands, and I can safely say it is.", he replies, sitting down and pointing around the foyer.

He throws his hands up. "Small talk be damned, sir. You are in the ship business, correct?"

"Yes. And you?"

"Cutlery."

The first thought Friedrich has is that you'd burst out laughing if you'd heard that. 'Pots and pans?!', you'd giggle. Note to self : he has to go calling 'round for you, or he'll lose his mind.

"How long will you be in town, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Six months. Should be plenty time to catch up with my loved ones."

"Oh, that is a relief. I... I am getting married, and I should like to invite you, it is five months from now."

Eurgh. Friedrich hates going to these things. "That is too kind."

"Of course, you may bring anyone you want, and... I suppose it's nearly decided that we require your blessing."

He hates sycophants, but he's only twenty, this Sebastian. A child.

"My friend, Frieda, she lives on the other side of town. Tonight, there is a soirée. You must come, with your intended.", he offers, politely. It's as kind as he can be. If he invites him here, maybe he doesn't need to come to this child's bloody wedding. Besides, he knows you'll love this character, and Frieda would invite you.

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course, of course! She loves art, as do I."

Friedrich fights a scoff. A young couple desperate to fit into high society? Of course they "love art".

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

Your eyes follow the pianist's fingers, deftly prancing along the keys, like a deer, or a bunny, or— god, is this what you'd come to? Peak boredom, this was, looking for woodland creatures to use to describe how a musician plays the most overplayed piece in history at a soirée with people you've seen far too much within one year.

There's only one saving grace, and he hasn't arrived yet. Friedrich.

You could never write back, of course. Which port could you send it to? He never stayed in one place for long.

Which is why he is not up-to-date on... the recent developments.

But he'd finally given a definitive date, and that is today.

While Friedrich is not a violent man, his emotions are big. Sadness, when his father passed? Ginormous. Almost swept you away, the wave. And now, his anger may burn you. You're not sure.

He knows that there's only so much mind-numbing mundanity that you can take before you turn to alcohol, so this lack of punctuality is simply the adult equivalent to Friedrich tugging at your hair back when you were six. For laughs. For kicks.

Which is why, no matter how alert you think you are, he can always sneak up on you, use his pinky to move your earring (and the strand of hair covering your ear at the same time) to whisper something absolutely ludicrous to you.

Usually, it is something along the lines of :"Liesel looks particularly scandalous today, does she not? I must have a go.", or "It seems Christoph thinks hats are back in fashion. He would not be wrong, but I think he fails to understand they are for the fairer sex."

Today, it is : "Mermaids aren't real."

"Then the Earth is flat.", you retort.

He rolls his eyes. "Incorrigible. You look breathtaking, though.", he says, offhandedly, still glancing at the painting before you. Mermaids.

"You have not even seen me."

"I never have to."

And then you hug, and he spins you around with such joy, that he's glad this is a closed event, or certain judgemental members of society would have branded the two of you as "improper".

"Why have you changed so much in two years?", you hiss, and he guffaws, shaking his head.

"Me? How about you? All ruffles and patterns, it's like you've lost your... you-ness!", he exclaims.

"Well, you look dashing as well."

"You say this because you have not seen us both. I pale in comparison to you."

"You are nicer tonight.", you remark, before tilting your head to narrow your eyes at his little grin. A small gasp of realisation. "You have news. I do, as well."

A counter-gasp of mockery and amusement. "I do. But first, let's get the devil-liquid away from you, yes?"

He takes the glass of sherry as though he is doing you the greatest favour (he might, in all honesty), before downing it himself. "What was this, your fifth of the night?"

"Actually, that was my second. Though, had you arrived a second later, that would have, in fact, been my fifth.", you mutter, and he chuckles, his eyes racing around the room.

"Right, so my news—"

"Friedrich.", you sigh, shaking your head with a slow, purposely drawn-out gentle punch to his shoulder. "You look so weary. Did you come straight here from the port?"

"Yes, you impatient imbecile. I stopped by my house."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I met, uh... quite an interesting character, my tenant. Ooh, speak of the devil. You'll enjoy this.", he informs, turning you around.

"Herr Harding! Ah, I see you've met my intended!"

Friedrich feels like he could vomit all over the mermaid painting hanging on the bloody wall.

The way your shoulders tense tells him exactly what he was dreading.

"Herr Schneider, I'm glad you could make it.", he grits out, with as much politeness as he could muster while shaking this utensil-mogul's hand. "Your... intended and I have known each other since the ages of five and two. Right?"

"Five and two.", you affirm, biting at the inside of your cheek. God, has it been that long?

A sort of charged silence forms and you're sure that there's nowhere else you would be opposed to teleporting to.

"Ah. Never thought to mention this?", asks Sebastian, lowering his tone as if Friedrich wasn't right there.

"Well, you did not tell me where you had rented, Sebastian, did you?", you mutter, eyes fixed on the painting to your left.

He's quite literally about to vomit. He looks to the painting. His lunch would not look good on it, he decides.

"Beautiful painting.", he manages to spit out, coughing to mask his disgust.

Sebastian clears his throat. "Ah, yes, the mermaid. Please, you have voyaged the sea. Explain to her that they do not exist."

Friedrich is not too keen on helping this Sebastian character out.

"But they do."

Your eyes shoot up, and he's glad they're on him, fixed. "I've seen one."

Sebastian looks at him knowingly, as though they are both doing this to appease you. As though this is all some inside joke.

"A real one?"

"Looked just like you, y'know?"

"You're pulling my leg."

"On the contrary. However, I really must be going. Much to set right in terms of letters from family who have invited me to dinners and such."

You're not sure what happened to Friedrich out there at sea, if he actually did have a traumatic encounter with a mermaid, or perhaps a very devastating business deal, but you're ready for this phase to stop.

You'd like to tell yourself it's because of your engagement, but he's always been the first to keep reminding you that one day you'll be married off, and so it's ludicrous to think that has any effect.

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

He hates feeling things on this scale. This sort of wallowing has not happened since he was six, since his father passed, and thankfully it had only been you, seeing it.

Now it was you causing it.

"Regret is not a word in my vocabulary, Frieda.", he chuckles, absentmindedly playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

"It is in your heart, though."

"What is in my heart is ensuring that my business goes well. I have far too many things at stake as of now. I have some French and some Americans fighting for the same deal with me."

"You are in demand, then?"

"That I am."

"In all aspects?"

"Frieda, you have shown the splendour of your matchmaking skills with, uh... Herr Schneider. I do not require your services."

Frieda chuckles. "Friedrich, you have met Schneider. He is not a bad—"

He holds up his hand to silence her. "He is a fine man, determined, business-minded, kind. He goes along with her whimsies when she needs it and also knows when to yank her chain, he— he understands."

There is no response, and Friedrich does not even have to look up to know that Frieda has horror etched on her face.

"Friedrich, I will ask you this once, and once only."

Fuck.

"Do you want her?"

Fuck!

"Who?"

"By God, you do.", whispers Frieda, her brows raised as though he'd just blasphemed. "Friedrich!"

"What? Is it a crime to love the same person since six years old? If so, I apologise that I do not leap from woman to woman, like others my age!", he grunts, standing quite abruptly.

"Friedrich, I know you. You will wallow and wallow and take the pain inwards like liquor!", she hisses.

"So... what? You think I should tell her? You think I require closure?"

"On the contrary! I think you must forget this! Push it out of your head! She is engaged, and besides, you'd kill each other, anyway, as a married couple."

That was true. But that's a death he's willing to die.

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

It's been two months. Two months of, as predicted by Frieda, wallowing.

You've thought about writing to him many times, but he is not staying at his own home, though Schneider offered it, no, he is staying at an inn he will not tell you (or Frieda) the name of.

He needs to look out for you. You, an engaged but as of yet unwed young lady cannot be seen being familiar with an unwed, unbetrothed, eligible bachelor like himself.

Cannot. It is social suicide, and forgive him if he doesn't want you dead. Scandal will ruin you, and he doesn't want that.

Unfortunately, christenings are ceremonies that one cannot skip. What has a child done to you? Nothing. You cannot give any excuse that falls short of death. And so, he goes.

He catches your eye from across the room, and nearly turns away to avoid you, but frowns when he sees you turning away first. Wait, he knew how you'd betrayed him by hiding something this important, but what had he done to you? Oh, come on, you can't honestly be angry about the whole mermaid-thing, can you?

He follows after you, clearing his throat to gain your attention. He knows you well enough to know that you crossing your arms is indication that you acknowledge his presence.

"I apologise. I did not say congratulations, at Frieda's gathering."

"Thank you."

A pause. He sighs. He wants to see your smile. "Forks and spoons for the rest of your life?"

"Better than anchors and sails.", you retort.

"You used to love hearing about my voyages.", he huffs, still maintaining the respectable distance required for two eligible, unwed youth. It's the principle.

"I also used to love eating with forks and spoons."

Why were you the exact same, with your witty retorts, but so inexplicably different at the same time? As much as he didn't want to do this, he knows that he cannot bear not being part of your life, and he most definitely cannot bear your apathy. Frieda probably looks on with warning, but she is behind him, her glare on his back, and you are right there, so tangibly perfect in front of him.

"There is a pond outside. We must rematch."

"And what will that achieve? Why must I come down and socialise with the likes of you?", you hiss, painfully. "Go home."

His hand snakes down into his pockets, and he flashes a couple pebbles perfectly suited for throwing out at you. He'd shoved them into his pocket this very morning, with no intention of using them in any way. If someone else had found them, they'd think he were suicidal, wanting to go drown himself like one of your sirens would.

"You're just terrified you'll get beat.", he shrugs, gesturing at the stones in his hand. "Sad, sad, sad, your backbone disappeared out there at finishing school, I take it."

"I will alert the entire town that you're being a prick to a girl three years your junior."

He shrugs once more. "Has age has ruined your skipping arm? Hang on. Is that what it is? Age? That is why you're settling for Spoon Schneider? He is your age, so you think companionship-wise, he's... acceptable?", he calls, and you pretend not to hear him.

You scoff. He cannot possibly think, after all the opportunities he's had, that this will magically be a joke between the two of you, or break the ice.

He rolls the pebble between his fingers once more, and you shake your head once again. "Go home."

"If I go, I will never return again."

"I highly doubt that."

"You will lose me as a friend."

"Haven't I already?"

He does not reply.

"Friedrich."

"I have tried to avoid you, and it is for a reason."

"Then keep avoiding me, because you clearly do not care for me!"

"WHAT is wrong with you?!", he yells, finally, throwing his hands up. "What is WRONG with you?!"

The entire venue hushes, and he feels like he's just slapped you. He hasn't, he could never, but with how humiliated— and angry — you appear, he might as well have.

▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵▵

He hears the plop of you tossing a stone into the water before he actually sees you. And then, there's multiple plops, and you come into view, sitting by the lake.

Friedrich's hands hold two glasses of brandy, and he proffers one to you. "I apologise if I offended you."

You do not startle, just find another pebble and throw it as far as you can. A distant plop.

"And if I offended Schneider.", he offers, downing one of the glasses.

"I don't understand! Do I suddenly bore you? Or sicken you?"

Bore him? You? With your talks of mermaids and your inability to let anything just be without getting to the bottom of how it came to be? You are the furthest thing from boring, or sickening, for that matter.

"No. No. You do not."

"Then what is it? Why are you being like this?"

"I would just... I would have thought you'd at least... ask approval, or my opinion or... my blessing, y'know?" This is stupid. You will kill him for suggesting such a thing.

"Asked for your approval?! I'm sorry, correct me if I'm wrong. Do you mean to say that you think you are entitled to making my decisions, and judging them without knowing the whole truth?"

If Friedrich were a smarter man, he'd have read between the lines of that last sentence. But his emotions... Friedrich feels things on a level not quite understood by people who do not know him, and now? He feels shame and defensiveness.

"I ask your approval before everything I do! The tenants, for instance?"

"Yes, everything except leaving for two bloody years on a voyage you didn't even need to go on!"

Oh.

"So this was revenge."

"This was a matter of time."

The sounds of the birds attempt to mitigate the silence.

You stand, and he stupidly thinks you're about to charge at him. But you just snatch the glass from him, before you throw your head back to down the contents.

He places both glasses behind him. Gazes at you. Sighs.

One arm extends gingerly, to pull your head to his chest, and the other one holds one of your hands, fiddling around with your fingers, trying his best to avoid the ring.

Unfortunately, it is unavoidable.

"Please tell me your grandmother left this for you before kicking the bucke— my condolences, by the way.", he mumbles, rambles rather, trying not to recoil at the ring that has just silently declared war against him.

"Well, no, not exactly. This is what he bought me."

"You were betrothed without a ring, then, initially? How urgent was this?" It's rhetorical. You both know your family.

"Are you angry?"

Yes. No? He's not sure. Never will be sure.

"You know me, big emotions, huge. I cannot...", he pauses, taking a shaky breath, "You have grown up.", he says, rubbing your back and falling just short of kissing the top of your head. "I suppose I did not like that I haven't been part of it for two years."

"I'm not sure I want to be betrothed at all."

He pulls away.

"What if it were me? Standing here with... with a ring, made of bloody... pirate gold, with a diamond brought from the depths of a treasure chest out there in the sea, and, and... and kissed by a mermaid? Would you be betrothed to me, then?" His thumb inconspicuously moves from your cheek to your lip.

"Friedrich—"

He knows it's coming. 'I love you like a brother', or, god forbid : "I love Sebastian."

"I'm sorry, that was... I just think that he... I just don't—"

"Approve?", you suggest.

He snorts, rubbing at your elbow. "Yes. Approve. It does not need to mean anything to you, but yes, I do not approve."

"Well, that's fantastic, because I learnt only one thing at finishing school and it is that I love you."

Friedrich's throat goes dry.

He would pinch himself, but it seems he is frozen. "No." He shakes his head. "No, that's not—"

"No?", you scoff. "If you think that is pathetic, I'll remind you that you just offered me a mermaid-kissed, pirate-Aztec-gold engagement ring with, what was it? A diamond from a treasure chest?"

"It is not pathetic."

"Then why did you say 'no'? Do you think this is a joke?"

"I think I am one, yes. All this t—"

"Don't flatter yourself, I haven't loved you for ages and tried to hide it, this is... a recent development.", you grumble, crossing your arms stubbornly. You will not give him the win of thinking you have been yearning all this time, especially when you've seen him do the same since he was, perhaps, fourteen? You weren't sure.

He grins. Adorable.

"Well, not for me. No, I have loved you ever since I was six years old. But for you, it was a long time coming, yes?"

Six? You're not sure if he's still good at reading your face, but you try your best to hide your astonishment.

"One day, Friedrich. I shall have the self-confidence you so unjustly possess."

"One day, you will be Frau Harding and regret your life choices.", he smiles, stupidly, before he kisses you. Now, you have never been kissed before, but this seems like a remarkably lovely one. His lips move soft and steady against yours, yet there was still desperation, passion, and it stirred you so much you moved back, just an inch.

"Don't you dare pull away."

And so you don't. Your elbows rest on his shoulders and your hands hang loosely against the back of his neck as he kisses you, slowly lowering his hat from his head with every movement towards your lips. It falls into the lake. He doesn't care.

"Betrothals fall through all the time. You cannot see yourself as Frau Schneider, you know this." He has not separated himself from your lips, and it does not seem like he can.

"Yes, but—", you cut yourself off with a low laugh as his moustache tickles your neck when he kisses it. "You have to shave this thing off."

"If you vow never to marry Schneider, I will.", he mumbles out against your throat. "You know this."

"I do know this."

"You have known this. Much longer than you've been letting on.", he muses, his forehead against yours as he breathes you in. His thumbs rub against the sides of your corset until you reach into his pockets, causing him to furrow his brows.

"Whoever loses has to break the news to my family.", you declare, rattling a couple of his pebbles around in your palm, nudging his elbow.

"You worry about telling your family? I think you should be more worried about telling your little... flatware financier that the betrothal's off.", he teases, revelling in the eye roll you respond with.

"I miss the days that men would get into sword-fights over us. Would make all this so much easier.", you mutter, sucking on your teeth as you launch one out onto the lake. Seven. Not bad.

"Please, he'd bring a knife, I'd bring an anchor. There can only be one winner, siren, and you know who it is."

"Siren?"

"You cannot possibly think anyone else's voice was haunting me and tormenting my sleep out there in the vast, blue nothingness."

You smile at that, and he's not sure he's ever going to recover. "Really?"

"Yes. The Earth is round, and you are a siren.", he says, kissing softly at your temple before he turns back to the water. He focusses. The last stone.

He could beat your record. No, he really could, easy. But that's the thing. He must make life easier for his future wife, even if it is telling an otherwise lovely gentleman that she will not be marrying him.

So, he makes sure he barely gets to four on his last one.

"Guess the cards just aren't in my favour, siren."

After you have adequately celebrated your win, the two of you sit out there until you have both bird-watched and stargazed.

Oh, the cards are definitely in his favour.

[etherealily]

umm…can I please ask for Friedrich Harding? Maybe a friends to lovers angst? 🤭 maybe the reader is betrothed to someone else and baby boy (he’s far from being a baby boy.) is like: ☹️😔 and distances himself from her? And the reader is like: wtf is wrong with you? I am in love with u, idiot! 😤

(I know this is very ooc but like Friedrich being sad just does things to me??? 😃😄 Ifyouknowhatimean 😏)

Tally, you ate with this and I love you for it. I could go on about how you could do this justice for days. But, I am nothing if not grateful. So, thank you for this and I hope I did it justice !

Here it is!

And ATJ sad eyes ftw, twin <3

[etherealily]

I kick my feet every time I see you put something else out 😝

Don’t ever stop writing man, even if you stop posting it that’s okay, but NEVAAA stop writing, you have an amazing talent and skills.

woke up to this don't think I'll ever go back to sleep again because???

I love my mutuals and you are definitely no exception!

And yes, I will never stop writing 😤🗣️💗

-XOXO, Vega 💗

[etherealily]

hi so regarding this

thank you for all the DMs and asks about a part 2 💓

as I keep saying, you will have to actually give me ideas, because I am genuinely blank as to what I can even do with this 💗

ʏᴀʏᴏ // ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ

Rafe Cameron + fem!reader. Drugs. Cussing. Thanks to this ask <3

⚠ I haven't gone all-out on this one like I did for Nate, because I want to test the waters. I've never written for him before, so if it sucks, I know to stop. ⚠

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You're hanging out with the wrong people, Touron.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Rafe's pretty happy with his life, overall. He's got no complaints. Mostly.

But the only thorn in his side is his inability to lip-read.

It's killing him. He knows John B said "I can be", and that caused you to laugh, but in all honesty, he couldn't read what you'd said to elicit John B's response.

What did you ask him? If he was a criminal? Would he say "I can be" to that?

Did you call him an asshole? That seemed to make more sense, but you were laughing, so you were probably not being rude at all.

And why are you in the grocery store, anyway? What do you want? Cigarettes? Alcohol? A grip? He needs you to get the last one, honestly. Tourons like you? Sharkbait for those Pogues.

Alright, was this weirdo, borderline psycho behaviour? He'd yell "no!", but in reality, it might be, seeing as he'd only found you this morning.

Rather, you'd found him.

FIVE HOURS EARLIER.

It was his fault, honestly. He'd been on his phone, like a fucking idiot, and he hadn't seen it coming, all he'd heard was your voice. "Watch out, man!"

Yeah, too little, too late.

You'd been chuckling, too, when you'd raced over to help him up, prodding at his head as if that would stave off the impending concussion. "I'm sorry, man, hey, can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"

He'd swatted your hand away, rubbing at his head as you picked up your football, dusting it off. "You don't seem sorry, you're laughing."

"Well, yeah, but I am sorry, alright? My bad, totally." Your hand was on your chest as if you actually gave a shit whether he lived or died. "You need anything? Like, ibuprofen? Medical care?"

"I need an explanation.", he scoffed, standing up and dusting himself off.

"Well, my cousin and I...", you'd said, gesturing back out at the little boy a little ways away. "We were throwing the old pigskin around, and we hit you. I think that's logical deduction."

"Yeah, who even are you?", he spat.

"We're just tourists, man, we're not here to start anything up."

Alright. Okay, phew. Tourons. At least there weren't a couple Pogues left unaccounted for.

"And why were you laughing?"

The question seemed to tickle your funny bone once again, and your hand shot up to cover your mouth. "He was just saying how funny it'd be if we hit a cop and got arrested. And then, y'know, here you walk, and we accidentally do hit you."

"Accidental my ass. Look at him, he's smirking."

"Whoa, hey." You'd stopped him from lunging at your little cousin. "He's ten. Lay off him. Any problem, you take it out on me."

He'd rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Be careful."

"Will do."

He'd blown sand off his phone, watching from his side eye as you jogged back to the kid. "Hey!"

You'd turned back, rolling your eyes and tossing the ball back to your cousin before jogging back to Rafe. "What?"

"Sorry. We got off on the wrong foot. I'm Rafe Cameron. Welcome to Outer Banks."

Pleasantly surprised, you'd returned the sentiment, a little smile on your face before you waved at him. He decided he liked this smile heaps more than the cruel grin you'd had when he'd been hurt.

"There's a kegger later!", he called, and you tilted your head.

"KEGGER!", he repeated, louder. "You should come!"

You saluted him. Huh. Weirdly easy. No wonder Pogues like going for the Tourons. Easy score.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Which brings us back to this monstrosity of a sight for him to witness. For once, he had literally no idea what was going on. When did this happen? When did you start thinking it was okay to tour all over Outer Banks like you owned the place? Okay, wrong word choice. You were a tourist. It made sense.

But John B? Really? You found no one else on this entire island to talk to? Rafe and then some Pogue? Fuck.

Pogues. POGUES! Oh, no, you didn't know about them. You probably thought this was just a guy at a grocery store trying to chat you up! Poor you. He almost sighed in pity.

After you finished laughing at John B's "I can be" (whatever the fuck that meant), he nudged your shoulder. How fucking uncouth. "Hey, y'know, there's this kegger tonight. At the Boneyard. You should come. I'll show you around, introduce you to my friends."

Pogue friends. Rafe had to dig his nails into a nearby packet of crisps to keep from telling you to run the fuck away.

"Boneyard? Sounds ominous."

"Yeah? Don't worry, you'll be safe."

"I gotta ask. What the hell's a 'kegger'?"

John B's smile at that was enough to make Rafe want to throw him into the fucking Pacific. Why couldn't you have asked Rafe that?! Wasn't he the first to tell you about it?!

"Kegs?"

"Oh, I'm so fuckin' dumb.", you groaned, rubbing at your forehead. "I'm gonna shut up, now."

"Hey, no, you're good. It's a weird word. So, I'll see you there? Confirmed?", he asked, holding his fist out.

Don't fist-bump him, Touron, fuck's sake. Don't do it, don't do it, don't—

"Yeah, confirmed.", you grinned, bumping your fist against his.

"That right there was your RSVP, Wilmington, okay?", called John B, walking backwards out of the store and raising the just-purchased six-pack like some sort of alco-beacon. "I'll hold you to it!"

Wilmington?

"Yeah, you got it!"

Rafe half-expected you to flip him off behind his back after he left, complain to the cashier about how annoying and wild that guy was, hell, at least roll your eyes? But, no. You just shook your head, laughed again (he had to find out just what about John B was so fucking amusing) , and reached into your pocket for the money you owed for — Rafe squinted — oh, brilliant. Fucking candy. Probably for that brat of a cousin of yours.

Enter Rafe.

"Need me to spot you?"

You turned, smiling momentarily before shaking your head. "No, I got it, I—", you mumbled, reaching into your short's pockets even further. "Fuck."

Rafe shook his head, flipping open his wallet. "I got you. How short is she?"

"Like, three bucks.", replied the cashier. "Y'know, if you're actually movin' here, we can just settle it out next time?"

Rafe's head snapped to yours, just as you found the money in the pocket of your shirt. "Here. Sorry for the wait."

"That's no problem. You have a good day, now."

"Sorry I made you whip out your, uh, fancy wallet.", you told him, swinging the little grocery bag containing the diverse loot of chocolates back and forth as the two of you walked out (he'd bought a set of batteries as pretence) of the store.

"You're moving here?", he questioned, shoving the wallet back into his pocket.

"Nothing's confirmed yet, but this wasn't just a vacation, we're here to scope things out."

"Yeah?", he asked, rubbing at his jawline. "Wilmington to here. That's a big move."

"How'd you know I was from Wilmington?"

He considered lying, but he thought starting this... thing, whatever it was, off with a lie probably wasn't in good taste. "I heard you talking with the cashier earlier. Uh... why here?"

"I'm going to CMAST. Figured it'd be better being here than in Wilmington."

He scrunched up his nose, shaking his head. "Mm, incorrect. It's actually longer from here to Morehead than Wilmington to Morehead. You'd be lengthening your travel time."

"I said better, not closer. I just think I'd be living and breathing marine biology if I came home to Outer Banks every day after Uni.", you shrugged. Frankly, Rafe saw your point. No one around him had any ambition, any drive, and it set his teeth on edge.

"You're serious about this, huh? Thought it all out."

"Well, yeah, I got a concrete plan up for my future, so what? Like you don't?"

Fuck, just when he was starting to like you.

"You alright?"

He snapped out of it, turning to you again. "Uh-huh, yeah. Just zoned out. There was a party last night, we, uh... it got crazy."

"Yeah? And there's another one tonight? Is the OBX just EDC by the sea?"

The Electric Daisy Carnival? You were a rave girl? Wait... had he just found a coke-customer-slash-neighbour-slash-potential-hookup all wrapped with a pretty little bow?

"I'll be coming.", you assured. That was smart. Deftly avoiding the 'with him' part. It was smart and annoying.

"See you there, then."

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Rafe's Dad had been asking him to find someone to buy the house across from them, and finally, fucking finally, he'd found someone. In fact, no, someone had fallen right into his fucking lap.

And that someone was someone he 100% didn't mind having as a neighbour.

Well, he minded quite a bit that you were talking to the Pogues, though. Granted, you wouldn't be living around here for much of your life, you'd go to Uni in the morning and come back late in the evening, and you probably wouldn't care about stupid rivalries between The Cut and Figure Eight, but—

And great. That's great, you were cheering at one of those fuckass Pogues - John B, ugh - doing a keg stand instead of rolling your eyes at the fucking immaturity.

His shoulder was thumped from behind as someone - fucking Maybank! - jogged past him to the keg, immediately hugging you and spinning you around.

Rafe's lip-reading-ability was delayed, but it came, because he was pretty sure JJ had just said "Hey, John B's friend, you made it!".

See, this is what he was talking about, 'uncouth'.

A girl you'd never even met, just heard about from your friend (probably in crude terms like 'smokeshow' or 'knockout', or whatever these rats used) , who had himself, just met her for five minutes at a grocery store, and you go hug her like you're long lost friends?

There's etiquette to be maintained, and Rafe liked to think he had some.

"So tell me, can you actually be a realtor?"

What the fuck? What the — oh. That's what you'd been saying at the grocery store that afternoon? "Are you a realtor?" and then John B had replied, "I can be."? What was that even supposed to mean?

"Anything you want, m'lady."

Rafe had to physically cringe at that one. Pogues had no class, and more importantly, no game.

But it seemed to work just fine on you.

"I just don't know. It's expensive, moving out here, changing our whole... well, everything. Those houses I saw out there, I mean—"

"Whoa, whoa, you mean... that way?", asked John B, and his pointing was the only thing that clued Rafe in on what he said. You were so clear with your speaking. That idiot was mumbling half the time, it set Rafe's teeth on edge.

"Yeah?"

"No, no, that's, that's Figure Eight."

Yeah, the only normal side.

"You could go there, y'know, if you've got the money for it. We call them Kooks, the people that live there. Deadass. It's too posh for normal people, you'll get converted. Call me selfish, but I think you're cool."

"I'm honoured, truly."

Ugh. Fate worked in such stupid ways. You were so charming, so charismatic, and there you were, talking to some dumb Pogue that probably would need rubber grip on his pencil and possibly external guidance while even trying to spell your name.

Rafe glared on as he took harsh sip after harsh sip from his beer.

"You should be. We hate everyone.", piped in the Maybank kid.

"Shut up, JJ. Anyway, there's plenty of relatively higher-end houses right here in The Cut. You should come to my place, it's kinda big."

Oh, fuck. No, no, no! You did not belong in The Cut, no way, you had so much Kook potential, it's actually crazy.

"Your place?"

"I... I didn't mean 'you should come back to my place' like that, I just meant—"

"Yeah, John B, I know."

Ew, this was excruciating to watch. How the fuck does a Pogue get someone like you to blush this hard? Goddamn. He hated having to rescue people, but it seemed that's all he was doing for every resident of Kildare Island.

"Hey, you made it!", he exclaimed, holding his hands out in enthusiasm.

He loved the feeling of having four pairs of Pogue eyes immediately turning to look at him. But he focused solely on the other pair present. "I was worried I had a concussion, and forgot to invite you, or somethin'.", he joked, earning a chuckle from you.

"You did. Uh, this is—"

"Yeah, we know each other. What's up, Rafe?"

Rafe nodded in their direction. "Nothing much. Can I have one?"

Pope licked his lips for a moment, before he leaned over and handed him the beer. "So, what did you decide?"

You take a sip of your own, tilting your head. "What do you mean?"

"Like, CMAST." He wanted to one-up the Pogues. They probably didn't even know about your dreams, not like Rafe did. Hell, they probably didn't even know what CMAST stood for.

"Oh, yeah, um, I don't know, we're discussing it, my family and I."

"There's a house right across the street from mine, y'know? Fully furnished, generators, close to grocery stores, shit like that. Pretty sick. Plus, familiar face.", he offered, his finger drawing an imaginary circle around his face.

"That's a downside."

"The fuck did you just say to me, Maybank?"

If you weren't in on the Kook vs. Pogue rivalry that permeated through Kildare before, you were now.

"Hey, he's drunk, Rafe.", said John B, like he had any fucking right to talk.

Jesus. If you hadn't been right there, he'd have drop-kicked them both.

He didn't even realize that both him and JJ had pulled their blades about a quarter ways out of their pockets, until he saw your eyes widen in the moonlight.

Snorting, he shook his head, shoving it back in and hugging your shoulder. "Well, it was nice seeing you all. You, too, Touron.", he smiled, squeezing slightly before letting go in favour of moving to the direction of Topper and the rest of the gang.

The beer bottle didn't leave his hand the rest of the night, long after he'd drained the last couple drops, too.

Because Kelce had come in with the info from a buddy in Wilmington. Rafe had been right. You were 100% a potential customer, and that knowledge enthralled him like nothing else.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Yeah, the oddly-elusive Touron who'd suddenly latched onto his subconscious did coke. Not as often as him, not nearly, but you did it nevertheless. And not even the fun way, that gets you to tell him all your secrets. Just the does-coke-way. Ugh. But, hey. He'd do anything it took to get more time with you.

The kegger was still going, but you were walking by the shore, attempting to get signal (probably to calm your worried family down) and absentmindedly kicking sand on your way.

"Wanna score some blow?"

"Jesus, Rafe, what the fuck?!", you exclaimed, shuffling back quickly as he swerved his bike right in front of you, dangerously bordering on running you over.

"Payback for the football.", he grinned, handing you a helmet. "Hop on."

"I can't right now."

Bullshit, you were on vacation, you had jackshit to do.

"Are you still freaked out by the scuffle back there, with the Pogues?"

"You mean the fight where both of you pulled out fucking knives, and could've ended up bleeding? No, not really.", you scoffed. He gently twisted his accelerator so he rode a steady pace by you as you walked.

"That's a decades-long rivalry. Pogues versus Kooks. But honestly, which one of us seemed more like an actual kook? Me, or the asshole that provoked me for no reason?"

You didn't respond, and he knew he had you. Once again, he swerved to block your path, tilting his head with a low whistle. "C'mon. Hop on." He waggled the helmet around in front of you.

"I don't want blow."

"I was just kidding. It was a bit. Y'know, with the motorcycle and the—", he huffed, shaking his head. "Okay, seriously, get on. I'll take you on a tour of the Island."

You narrowed your eyes, taking the helmet, but making no move to actually get on the bike. "You know that at the end of the day, which part of the island we move to is my family's decision, right? Not mine."

Saluting you, he leaned back, patting the seat behind him. "Just a tour."

It's like you were made for the bike. God, he had to keep you right next to him in Figure Eight.

The drive was silent. Fine by him.

Helping you get off the bike and unbuckle your helmet, he led you a little closer to the shoreline. "You know, my Dad was a Pogue."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Worked his ass off for this life."

"Shouldn't that make you more sympathetic to them?"

"No, trust me, no one right now has it harder than my dad did way back then. These people are all lazy.'

"I don't think you know everyone's situation--"

"Trust me, no one had it harder than my Dad. They're all criminals, y'know? Lowlifes, and it kills my Dad, because they have the potential to be just like him, but they aren't."

You hummed, and he tilted his head.

"So, what about you? You have dreams and shit beyond CMAST? You one of those neurotic people that plan their whole life?"

Shrugging, you absentmindedly drew patterns in the sand.

Great, John B had gotten in your fucking head, clearly. Or maybe it was the fight from an hour or so ago. Either way, you were closed off. In a last ditch attempt, he allowed the word vomit to explode.

"I'm just gonna come out and say it, it's obvious."

"Yeah?"

"I looked you up."

Tilting your head, you frowned. "You what?"

Deny, deny, deny.

"I don't know. You seem cool. I like you. So, I looked you up."

You seemed mildly amused. "And?"

"My buddy found a picture of you doing coke. Or something."

"What are you, a narc?"

"I can be."

"But you're not."

He grinned. "No, I'm not. In fact, I got the best yayo this side of Kildare."

Rafe watched a chuckle come out of your mouth. "Right. And you think I wanna buy it?"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not an idiot, maybe? I'm a recreational user."

"Same."

You narrowed your eyes at him, and he shrugged, standing up and patting his hands together before extending one out to you. "Come on. I'll show you the country club."

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Rafe's pretty sure he's been successful so far.

Come on. Who else on this whole island can say that in the span of a single week, they managed to absolutely sway a Touron into wanting to move to Figure Eight, while making really good money by selling her coke, and plus getting real fucking close to scoring with her?

No one. Not the Pogues, not even another Kook. It was all Rafe.

And he figures, since you only have five days left of this trip, he needs to get all the time he can to convince you that you're a Kook through and through. Especially considering the fact that you seem to be dividing your time equally between him and the fucking Pogues, like some sort of social-group-jumping-whore.

"But he's fuckin' cheating on you!", splutters Rafe, shaking his head in absolute disbelief. Even in a hypothetical question about "What would you do if you find out your boyfriend cheats?", he's reducing himself to just the exasperated coke-buddy and it's fucking stupid.

He should've asked "What would you do if I were your boyfriend?". FUCK! Why do the best ideas come at the wrong fucking times?

"So what? What makes you think I wouldn't cheat on him back?"

Rafe scoffs. "You could never, you're a paragon of fucking virtue."

"Wouldn't this technically be cheating on him?"

He furrows his brows in bemusement, looking around. "What, doing lines with me? No."

"Come on, if you had a girl, and she was doing coke with some other guy, you'd be chill?"

Alright, fair, but he didn't like how you started that sentence. He does have a girl. You. You just don't know it yet.

"If I had a girl, I'd treat her a helluva lot better than your hypothetical boyfriend's treatin' you. That's for sure."

You snort, and his eyes narrow, his foot shoving your arm off your lap so he can rest his legs on it. "What?"

"You'd barely ever be present enough to treat her in any way, man. Coked out half the time? Please. She'd have a more active relationship with a wall."

He shakes his head. "Anyway. I could never be with someone knowing they're fucking someone else.", he says, shaking another packet and grinning at the crinkle of the ziplock. "'S just stupid."

"Oh, let's not go there, alright?", you chuckle, pulling out the credit card to separate the lines. "You don't want to start a flaw-war."

"A flaw-war?", he scoffs, shaking his head as he kneels in front of the table. "Fuck's that supposed to mean?"

The coke disappears up his nose.

"Do some coke, too, so this is a fair fight, or you'll just be throwing points at me, and I'd be too wasted to respond."

Your hands held up in surrender, you lean down to snort the rest of the lines, sitting back up with a grunt as you wipe at your nose. "Fuck."

Fuck, indeed. He's too coked out to articulate them, but loads of words flood his mind about how you look right now. None of them appropriate.

In fact, even sober, he'd have to scramble to find a time where any thought he had about you was appropriate.

It happens really fast. Probably because he might have maybe, possibly... laced the coke. Just a bit. It's not wrong, and it's not a breach of trust, because he took the laced coke, too. He's not sober, taking advantage of you. Yes. He's not.

It feels like your tongue's bleeding glitter, like your consciousness is softening to mush and that's why it feels like it happens really fast. Your lips are melded with his, but he just keeps going.

"You ever have someone push you in the sandbox at preschool?", he breathes, his fingers dancing across the back of your scalp.

You nod and he kisses you like it's the answer to every question that's plagued him since he could think.

"Where's he now? I'll fucking kill him. You know I will, right? Ask me, I'll do it, I'll do it, I'm serious."

"Yeah, I know, I know.", you whisper, trying your best to hide your laugh.

Eyes wild like he's gone weeks without food and you're a buffet, tongue constantly darting out to wet his lips because he's unable to go a second without kissing you? It's all just making this funnier for you.

"You know, but do you believe it?"

"It's the drugs, Rafe."

"It's you."

That gives you pause, and he's wondering if he's fucked this up.

You shake your head, standing, and he's sure he has.

"Don't fucking walk away from me!"

Whoa. Rafe thought he had anger issues? Laced-coke-Rafe was like Zeus. You always left, and he didn't understand it. He'd never taken advantage of you, never will, and he really helps you out if you OD, so he's not sure who you think you're scrambling off to.

"What, I'm not hot enough for you?"

"Yo, Cameron, tell me why you keep hanging out with me. Certainly not because you're waiting to make a move, you could've asked me out fucking ages ago."

You try not to sway as you say this, but everything's off. Tilted, and it looks like he's feeling it, too.

Since when did everything turn to glitter?

He runs his hand across his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek. He has to rein his rage in, or he was looking at an assault and battery case, easy.

"It's 'cause you want to fucking sell me a house, isn't it?"

You're not sure that you like the harsh fluorescence of the fish tank behind him. It's borderline blinding.

"So fucking what, JESUS, seriously! So what? It's so fucking wrong that I might want you next to me? I might want to see you in a good neighbourhood? Maybe I'm a good fucking person, maybe?"

You scoff at that. "I just think it's fucked up that you're taking vacation time from me because you're playing realtor.", you hiss. "It's fucking idiotic."

Weren't the fish supposed to swim, not stay still?

"No, what's fucking idiotic is you even considering a house in The Cut! Why would you move there instead of here, where you don't lose your entire fucking Internet connection when a strong wind blows? Hm?"

"I'm not even FUCKING moving here, Rafe!"

And why were the fish suddenly blurry? Why were there suddenly twice the amount?

He doesn't really have the time to stop and say "Wait, what?", or scoff, or look short. He moves before his brain even articulates these things because finally, finally, he doesn't have to be restricted with you out of fear that he might blow the chances of you moving in.

He can taste you, now, and not have to use the 'sorry, man, I'm so coked out' excuse because he'd do this sober.

He'd do this on his fucking deathbed.

"Why aren't you moving here?"

The question's finally out, against your neck, but that's the least of your concerns.

"Is the coke laced?"

You've been so preoccupied with the fish tank, you haven't even noticed that he's on his knees now. He hums against your abdomen.

"Maybe a bit. I'm feelin' it, too."

"Your supplier not like you or something?"

"Why aren't you moving here?"

"My family decided there's no point moving from Wilmington to OBX, when I could just go from Wilmington to Raleigh and j— Jesus, Rafe."

"I can't convince you?", he murmurs, tugging down your pant leg. "Seriously, I make a great impression with parents. And I'm sure my dad could talk to the owners, get you a good deal on the house."

"Doesn't it bother you that your supplier laced the coke?"

He slides up, standing breathless in front of you, and your gaze snaps away from the fish tank behind him to his face.

The entire following conversation is interspersed with different topic changes every two seconds, from the laced drugs to the house to 'fuck, baby, you know those Pogues are just trash, yeah?' to how he would charm your parents to how much he hated his belt for not being able to come off fast enough.

"Yo, Wilmington, if I can't convince your parents to move to Figure Eight, I'll lace their food, too."

See, you laugh, but in all honesty?

You're not quite sure he's kidding.

[etherealily]

AHH THANK YOU??!?!

I thought it was a cool concept but I was worried I wouldn't execute it right but I'm glad you liked it ?!?!?

wait WAIT i have the best photo for this

ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟɪɴᴅꜱ // ꜰ.ᴏᴅᴀɪʀ

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

This was from my poll .

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Cuss words. Slightly longer.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Capitol-bred, out-of-touch, insensitive. You're everything he hates. But not quite. You're a crisis of his faith hate.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

Finnick hated this. He hated that he didn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night than move in to an apartment at the Capitol.

His best mates are at home, prepping the entire District two weeks before New Year's Eve, something he loved doing, and he was here, with a shiny old key to a dull new apartment. A penthouse, as if he cared.

As an extra-cruel addition, Snow had apparently installed venetian blinds that, when closed, looked like the ocean. Finnick felt like a chimp in an enclosure with trees painted on the wall, to make him "feel right at home". This is what you can't have, Finnick. What rightfully belongs to you. Jump around, little monkey.

Armed with the key and whatever possessions he could scrounge up that he didn't mind losing here at the Capitol (and a couple that he needed for sanity reasons that he would die if he lost, stored deep in his bag), he glared at the door. It was so fucking gaudy, he could break it down.

He put the key into the lock. The door swung open before he even turned it. It was unlocked?

Gingerly, he stepped in, dropping his bags onto the nearest chair and taking cautious step after cautious step into the room, half-expecting Snow to come out and give him one of those speeches that didn't do anything but show Finnick how absolutely out-of-touch he was.

Instead, he saw you.

"Uh, hello?"

You turned, slightly startled, from the venetian blinds that you'd been observing, before you smiled politely. "Hello, you must be Finnick."

Great! Just fucking great! Not only was he having to live in the fucking Capitol, now he was having a Capitol-bred roommate? Snow hadn't told him that!

"Yeah, uh, hi."

You gave him your name, reaching over to shake his hand. Huh. Where had he seen you before?

"Do I have to sleep on the couch, or...?", he laughed nervously, gesturing at the singular bed in the room.

You frowned. "I mean, y'know, if you want to? Is that how you sleep in the Districts?"

Beg fucking pardon? "What?"

"I'm sorry, did that offend? I wasn't given the proper greetings to use with you."

"Listen, if we're gonna be roommates, we're gonna need some ground rules—"

He didn't like your immediate sharp laugh at that. "Roommates? No, god, no. We're not roommates.", you informed, diligently.

"Then who the hell are you?"

Though evidently mildly taken aback by his use of the profanity, your cheery demeanor never faded. "Uh, no, I'm your mentor."

The world stopped, for a moment. The Games again? What?! This was not the fucking deal!

"Mags Flanagan was my mentor.", he replied, quietly and cautiously.

"Oh! Oh, yes, yes, sorry, yes, she was your mentor for the Hunger Games. I am your Capitol Fixture Mentor.", you announced, as if he was supposed to clap.

His what-fucking-who-now?

"One more time?"

"Your Capitol Fixture Mentor."

"English, please."

"You've been given this penthouse because President Snow thinks you're doing so well that you deserve to stay here."

Deserve. "Mhm?"

"So, you'll become a Fixture here at the Capitol. Capitol Fixture. And I'm here to help shape you right up."

He knew he must have looked like a jerk, his head tilted to the side as he eyed you up and down. You must have felt exposed, judged, even. And you'd be right. He was judging you hard. Who the hell did you think you were, unsettlingly-enthusiastic young thing — younger than him, actually — in your stupid Capitol outfit with your stupid Capitol makeup and your stupid Capitol dialect, telling him he needed to be changed`? Eurgh.

"Shape me up? Into what, exactly?", he challenged, his arms crossed.

"President Snow wants to put you in more advertisements, more promotions, y'know? More public appearances and whatnot. Make you someone of worth out here."

"I won the Games, little girl, I am of worth, and the deal was that if I won the Games, I could live out the rest of my life at home, in the Victor's Village, so you can t—" He cut himself off then. He couldn't threaten Snow back, he'd burn down his house, easy. "He told me I could go home.", he gritted out, his voice level and patient.

You frowned, the corners of your lips turning down. "Oh. I wasn't informed of such an arrangement. But I think you might like to know th—"

"I would like to know when I can go home and visit my family.", he spat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll... I'll go recheck if you want.", you mumbled.

"Yeah, I'd appreciate that.", he scoffed, watching you nod and leave.

What did Snow take him for? He'd already been having to try to live with the fact that the darling President had had him going on call after call to the Patrons, renting him out for God knows how much, but fuck, Finnick might actually drown himself if he had to go about promoting the Capitol, the Games.

Ugh, at least he could finally—

"They turned me right around.", you explained, defensively, as if he was about to maul you for being directed back in by Peacekeepers. Was it true, then? Did the Capitol really think people from the Districts were all animals?

Guilt prodded at him. You were a kid, what was he doing?

"Alright, it's okay. Just... relax. I'll unpack. Pretend like you already told me whatever you were instructed to t—", he sighed, in sudden realization. "You're mic'd."

"I am." Okay, if this was what you'd been trying to tell him all along, he was officially an absolute jerk.

Shaking his head, he yanked his bag from his chair. Apparently, it was unzipped, because he heard some stuff falling from it, but turning back would just be embarrassing. He had to save face.

In the mirror, he could see you frowning down at his clothes and bending over to pick them up.

"Leave them.", he ordered, not turning back.

"On the floor? Is that... is that how you keep them in the Districts? Because that's what the armoire is for."

"Alright, listen, kid, if you're gonna quote-unquote "mentor me", we're gonna have to set some ground fucking rules, alright?", he snapped, using air quotes before pointing at you as he swiveled around.

You nodded quickly. Yeesh. You were clearly going to make a habit of making him feel bad for his brashness, that's for sure.

"Number one : you don't talk about my District ever. Ever. I don't care what the context is, alright? Someone asks you to name all the Districts, you go "One, Two, Three, Five, Six, and so on." You get me? Not a word about my Four."

You nodded again.

"They don't teach you the word "Yes" here at the Capitol?"

"Yes."

"Good. Rule number two : you do not get to talk about the Games. You hear me?"

"Yes."

"Last rule. You're gonna...", he trailed off, reaching into his pocket for a pen of some sort. "You're gonna...", he struggled, trying to come up with a last rule to satisfy any listening ears. What is something Snow would expect him to fucking say?

As he was scrambling for an end to the sentence, he managed to find a pen at the edge of its life. Would have to do. He grabbed for your hand, scrawling on it : 'Give me a signal if you're mic'd.'

A finger at his lips.

"...Gonna not change you entirely?", you offered, nodding silently at the note on your palm.

Yeah, that'd be something Snow expected him to say. Okay, not bad.

He watched you open the blinds, the taunting ocean from Four disappearing, and sunlight shining through. That was your signal that you were mic'd.

"Yes.", he muttered, making sure whoever was listening in got that down. "Not change me entirely. I still wanna be Finnick, no matter what sort of training you give me."

"Alright. I, uh, accept your conditions."

"Rules."

"I'm President-appointed. These are conditions."

Alright, touché, he just got his ass handed to him in five words, he'll shut up.

"What were you supposed to do, again?"

"Well, today was just supposed to be about settling you in."

"Oh, you're the help, today?", he scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Thought I'd get an Avox. Fine. Whatever. Just sit there while I unpack."

And, to his immediate guilt, you did. Fuck.

After about five minutes of silent unpacking, he sighed. Least he could do is humour you. "What's tomorrow?"

"Saturday?"

He snorted. "No, I mean what's... what's the itinerary?", he asked, gratefully accepting the hanger you offered him, before hanging a shirt onto it and propping it onto the rod inside the armoire.

"Oh, speaking. I tell you possible questions you may be asked, and how to avoid ones you don't know."

You talked so enthusiastically about this, he suddenly understood that you knew everything but the most important things about him. You knew he was seventeen going on eighteen. You knew he had won the Games. You knew he was from District Four. You knew he was very cooperative with Snow, maybe even (in your eyes) one of his "favourites"`.

But you didn't know what he was being forced to do.

You didn't know why he was a "favourite".

The agonized, traumatized sadist in him wanted to burst your bubble. To tell you. But these are not things that one does.

"Do it today. Since we're not, y'know, doing anything."

You nodded. "Alright. One moment."

You pulled a tiny notebook out of your pocket and he hid a scoff. "Alright, you are not to talk about the Games. Unless you become a mentor, that is."

"But Mags is the mentor for Four."

"For now. Mags is nearly seventy.", you explained, clearly not knowing how close he was to screaming and screeching and storming into Snow's home and shooting him point-blank in the head for making him mentor kids younger than him to die, too.

"Right.", he muttered, blowing at some dust as he placed his collection of shells at his bedside.

"In the Rip, you must have a huge screen. They always do, right, in the Districts? To watch th— um, to watch things on."

The Rip was a special part of District Four, Finnick's favourite, because when the Peacekeepers weren't looking, there was an old man who had a camera and props, and would take photos of you for a fair price. And he'd manage to print them out somehow, as well, by pulling a lot of strings, and then you'd get a physical copy of it.

Only during holidays, though. Strictly.

Good, you didn't mention the Games.

"Yes, we have a screen."

"Good. So, you might have watched uh... interviews..."

"With the tributes. Yeah."

"Yes. You might have noticed that their audios may not always sync up with the video."

Yes, he had, actually. "Yes? That's a... it's called a glitch, right?"

The corners of your lips tugged to the side in a grimace, before you shook your head. "Usually, yeah, but not when it comes to the G— not in this case."

Okay, this, he did not know. "Elaborate."

"With pleasure.", you scoffed under your breath, and he decided that was a little too adorable to be taken as smart-mouthing, so he let it slide. "Sometimes, people say things that could be misconstrued as anti-Panem which, of course, as a tribute is never the intention, but it tends to happen."

He remembered his own Games, how happy he was to be there, how much he was looking forward to honouring the Capitol. And then he got there, and Mags had retained her sweetness, and suddenly, Finnick's goal was no longer to win the Games and honour the Capitol, it was to win the Games to honour his District and his family, his District Partner (if she didn't make it) and Mags.

"Tends to happen.", he mumbled, rubbing at his jawline.

"Yeah. And editing the feed, especially live feeds, is very risky, complicated and costly. You need to know how to speak, not edit. Alright? We cannot afford to keep editing what you say."

"And what is this line of questioning?", he scoffed.

"Do you miss District Four?"

"What kind of ques— yes, of course, it's my home, I fucking hate this place."

An imaginary gun, composed of two of your fingers was pointed at him, and you fired it. "Wrong."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I'll just not answer."

"And make yourself look more guilty of treason?"

"Alright, what am I supposed to say?"

"Be as truthful as you can. Until you can't."

"Solid advice. You should be on TV."

You cocked the imaginary gun again. "So, Finnick Odair. You're from District Four. Do you miss it at all?"

He gnawed on his upper lip for a moment, his mind racing on what would happen if he just jumped out the door, beat up the Peacekeepers, shot Snow, and ran back home to his District Four. But whoa. No. He needed to answer, or god forbid, this annoying little Capitol girl would imaginarily blow his fucking brains out.

"I... miss... my family...", he began, and was only encouraged by your tiny smile. Alright, clearly he was on the right track. "...And, yeah, sure, I grew up in District Four, so... that's my home—"

"No. Uh, you had it until you said 'home'. You can't make the District look better than the Capitol. If it was, wouldn't everyone just move there?"

"It is, though."

"For you. Because you're so comfortable there, because you grew up there. You can't suggest that it's better than the Capitol."

"How should I answer, then?"

"Ask me something."

"Why are you so insufferable?", he snorted, before trying to rack his brain for an actual possible question to ask you. To his surprise, though, you cleared your throat.

"Well, I won't lie and say I haven't got that one before. But I just think it's me being incredibly dedicated to the assignment I was given, especially one to mentor someone as incredible as you, who really doesn't need mentoring, considering your phenomenal performance in the Games."

It's like you had a fucking script or something, that was fantastic.

"Whoa.", he murmured, tilting his head at you as if you were about to grow four heads or something.

"So, Finnick Odair. What is your favourite thing about now being a Capitol Fixture?"

He took a deep breath, looking into your eyes — fuck, those eyes! — before beginning. "The food. 100% the food. Although I grew up on District Four grub and it'll always hold a special place in my heart, the food here is the reason I understand the phrase "chef's kiss", now, honestly.", he explained, with a little charming chuckle at the end.

"The interviewers won't clap for you, Finnick, but I will.", you encouraged, and for the first time ever, he got applause that he felt like he deserved.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"What the hell — should I have made "don't let yourself into my apartment" one of the rules?!", he yelled, sitting up as he heard you in distinct conversation elsewhere, through the ruckus of all the men walking past you, covering you entirely, actually, before going through his personal belongings and either replacing them with shinier, more Capitol-y bullcrap, or just tossing it down onto the floor. Like his childhood wasn't pretty enough.

At least the blinds were closed.

The men ignored him, and he did start at them, but he heard your voice from somewhere within the chaos. "You make a fuss, it's all the more reason for them to throw things away, because it makes you liability."

What were all these new rules he wasn't informed of but expected to know?!

Too many people, so he couldn't see you, but he could hear you over the shuffle of clothes and the clangs of trinkets being thrown haphazardly. "Hi, sir, this was a gift I got for my Fixture."

The burly man raised a brow, picking up the locket. His mother's. It must have fallen out of his bag, which is why you knew what it was. "You got a man a locket?", he asked, skepticism blooming in his voice.

"I didn't know that a locket was a particularly feminine thing. I spent a majority of my childhood at sea, you'll have to excuse me.", you replied, smiling and looking down.

"So you're, like... absolutely clueless?"

"Pretty much.", you giggled. "Embarrassing, huh?"

He couldn't see how you were doing it, but as much as he could eavesdrop, you used a different tactic for salvaging each item. "It would really be a cute token, I think, a seashell-collection? It's part of who he is, right?", or "It makes him look multi-faceted, that drawing. He isn't just a Victor, he's an artist. He's deep."

It took a while for them to leave. He'd been fiddling with the annoying fucking blinds again, watching the picture appear and disappear (why was that the only thing they left untouched?) before you cleared your throat.

"Finally. Here, I managed to save your locket, your shells, this little drawing, the poem, and the message-in-a-bottle with sand in it."

He turned. He almost wished he hadn't.

Finnick's heart crawled up to his throat.

Finnick's heart stopped in his throat, actually. Butterflies were past tense for him, he was dealing with unnaturally sized dragonflies, that poked their stick-like bodies at every square inch of his stomach.

You were breathtaking.

"What, uh...", he laughed nervously for a moment, rubbing the back of his head. "What are you wearing?"

"I was told I had to."

"Why?", he asked, immediately, a heat creeping up the back of his neck. You looked way too perfect. You were wearing the classic District Four dress he'd seen girls wear, growing up, your hair put up in the same way, and clearly you'd been instructed to stand the same way, somehow, too. But the rest of your body language? You were undeniably uncomfortable in this. Not because of the simplicity, but maybe the texture. Your skin was too used to soft Capitol silks for this.

"I was told it'd make you feel more comfortable, and it would also help model your clothes for the press—"

"God, how "good" do you think our President is?!", he snapped.

"What?"

"It's not to make me more "comfortable", it's to let me know I'll never have a fucking tangible piece of District Four here with me! You being here, looking like... well, that, serves the same purpose as those fucking blinds, with the ocean on them! It's not to make me feel more at home, he needs me to know this isn't my home!"

"You can keep these clothes, and I salvaged your keepsakes, plus you can alw—"

"Always what? Visit District Four? Yeah, for, like, a week, with surveillance and cameras and posing. And the clothes?", he scoffed, flicking at the collar. "You're wildly uncomfortable in them! You won't like to wear them all the time so yes, I have no tangible piece of District Four here with me, and thank you for that, thank you and President Snow!", he spat, gesturing wildly at the blinds.

The silence roared in his ears.

You nodded, subtly. "I am uncomfortable in this, but I could wear it for longer, and we could get inspiration for your outfits from this."

He sighed. You just didn't get it. He rubbed at the side of his cheek in exasperation, "I won't expect you to, and he knows that. Because that would be changing who I was. That would be selfish. That would be him."

"I'm sorry you don't have District Four with you."

"You can take it all off, now. Change.", he cut you off, waving before he turned to give you privacy.

"I don't want to."

"Yes, you do. Two people in discomfort in one room is way too Capitol for me."

You smiled. "Alright. The bag doesn't have other clothes in it, though."

"It's fine, borrow some of the crap the Capitol put into my armoire."

"Yeah?"

"Go ahead, I won't miss it."

"Thank you, Finnick Odair."

"Finnick. Just call me Finnick."

"Thank you, Finnick."

He fiddled with the cords of the blinds again, watching the blue of the faux-ocean — the fauxcean — flicker as he did.

"Um, I'm done."

Alright, this was getting ridiculous. His excuse for the previous emergence of the dragonflies was that you were wearing District Four garb, and he could pretend that you reminded him of some crush of his youth. But now? You were wearing Capitol stuff, oddly patterned and bright, and you still looked radiant.

"Bit big, huh?"

"Yeah." You shook your arms to show the flap of excess cloth.

"But better?"

You nodded. "Yeah, sorry."

"Hey, your comfort zone's my discomfort zone and vice-versa. Don't sweat it.", he assured, taking the Four garments from you and refusing to let you fold it. "We fold it a bit differently. Mind?"

"No, not at all."

"You can take that off, too, don't worry about it."

"My clothes? Again?", you asked, tilting your head and frowning.

He snorted, pointing at a tiny necklace on you, the only thing about your remaining outfit that was simple. Well, besides your hair. And he was glad you never wore your hair like the rest of the Capitol people, because hair was the second thing he noticed in someone. After their eyes.

Whenever he met someone new, he always pictured how the ocean breeze would treat them. If it was nice to their hair, he'd be nice to them. If the ocean hated them, well, Finnick knew to stay away.

Alright. He was bumming himself out. What ocean breeze, Finnick? You're stuck here for an indefinite amount of time. Get it together.

"What about that?"

Instinctively, you clutched at it, furrowing your brows. "What about it?"

"It's not yours."

"Sure is!"

"Right. And this penthouse is my birthright."

"Listen, I have been nothing but nice to you, but I do not appreciate being called a liar!"

He slid his fingernail under the anchor-pendant, lifting it up to examine it. "That is only made in the districts. I should know, my neighbour was a master welder who made things exactly like this."

"My great-grandmother agreed to become a Capitol Fixture just like you after having a child with a Harrington! And she passed this down! So there!"

Had he just class-shamed a girl he didn't know? God, Snow was rubbing off on him.

"You're District?"

"No.", you muttered. "Part. My family is."

"Which one?", he urged.

A pause. "Four."

Ah, he thought so! He could see the resemblance to some of his neighbours, honestly. "That's why you were assigned to me. To taunt me that the only connection I have to Four is contaminated by Capitol."

"Contaminated? You think I'm contaminated?"

"No, you—", he sighed. Okay, yeah, that's what it sounded like. "You're just... you're not pure District. You have Capitol in you. As far as I know, your grandmother didn't get married, right? Because that would've ruined the Harringtons. So... your mother was a Capitol mix?"

"And that makes us tainted?"

"No, no, I just mean—"

"Listen, you're not better than me because I have Capitol in me, alright?"

"Hey, that's not what I said. I'm not better. I know that.", he replied, slowly, clearly and warmly. "I just said... Snow knows I'm itching for District Four. I miss my home, Y/N, alright? And you... you're perfect, but you're supposed to be a reflection of what I'm going to become in a couple years' time. More Capitol than District. You understand?"

"I don't think you understand just how much President Snow thinks about you. You think he's out here to make your life worse, but he had these special-ordered from your District, and even put up signs all over to ask for a stylist from your District."

He was this close to actually jumping out the window. "He did not put up any signs. And even if he did, no one will come, alright? They think I'm a sell-out." His voice broke out of sheer exhaustion at the last word, and he felt like he was about to collapse.

Thankfully, you didn't try to double-down on your notion that Snow was Finnick's guardian angel, and instead, played around with your hair. At least that's what it looked like, to him, but no, apparently you'd reached back to unclasp the necklace.

"Here. Tangible piece of District Four."

"Oh, come on, that's on purpose, you're just trying to be all 'I'm-the-bigger-person', I'm so kind even though you're a prick, boo-hoo-me, and it's fucking manipulative.", he spat, shoving your hand back towards you.

"Or maybe I really just am a good person, Odair!", you scoffed, slamming the tiny anchor-chain down onto the table beside him. "Otherwise, why would I have salvaged your trinkets?!"

"Go ahead! Throw something that comes from the Districts away! We're only disposable to you assholes, right? Though you're part District!", he called, as you tried storming away. "And WHY? Conveniently, no one's telling me why my shit's getting thrown to the floor!", he bellowed, his hands out wide in exaggerated questioning.

"There's a Finnick Odair Penthouse Apartment episode this week on Panem Properties by Link Domus!", you yelled back, slamming the door behind you as you were, once again, pushed back in by the Peacekeepers.

"What?!" Oh, he fucking hated that show with everything in his heart! He used to make fun of it with his family, and now he was going to be on it?!

You nodded. "There'll be a camera crew coming in this weekend, and we really can't have it looking shabby. It should increase sales of a lot of products."

Products he had never and will never use. Good to know.

"So, there's a deadline, now? You have to make me the ideal Capitol Fixture by the end of the week?"

"Welcome to my discomfort zone.", you scoffed.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"I'm surprised you're normal about this.", he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but you were so close together, it made sense you'd hear him. "My escort during the Games hated coming to the District, even though we're one of the cleanest ones."

"I need you calm. New Years is coming up, and that means parties and interviews and events.", you responded, sternly, clearly avoiding his gaze.

"Hey." A nudge to your shoulder. "Seriously. Thanks. Apparently, people think I'm some sort of ladies' man. Which I'm not, I'm seventeen, but, y'know, being able to breathe here in Four is gonna do wonders."

"Oh. So I was right about my hunch. They fabricated it to make you juicier."

"'Juicier'.", he scoffed. "Where did that stupid expression even come from?"

"I guess when fruits are juicier, they're more satisfying to sink your teeth into.", you suggested, shrugging as if you hadn't just hit the nail on the head. "

Sink your teeth into. How apt.

He didn't like how nervously you looked out the window, as if District Four residents would attack you for not acknowledging your roots. And then, he realized you only probably thought that because of him, and how he had actually attacked you for it.

Fuck. Everything was coming up Snow, wasn't it?

"The Rip has this really cool spot.", he whispered under his breath. "It's all very hush-hush, but there's this man, Hector, who takes amazing photos."

"Photos? Cameras? Aren't they bann—"

"Yes, but he's a friend. Shh. We'll get some taken."

"I don't want to take a photo with you."

"You will once you see Hector's booth."

~~~~

"So, you're saying you know everything about District Four, the entire topography, but this is your first time here?", inquired Hector, in sheer fascination, with his wizened smile and gravelly voice.

"Well, yes, I'm part-Harrington, I was given the maps, and when I was bored, I'd study them."

"You seem smart."

"I do?"

"Yes. Here."

You took the prop from him, a headpiece that had a pink brain springing up from it, that wobbled when your head moved. You let out a sharp laugh, looking at yourself in the mirror. "I look ridiculous."

"-Ly cool. Come on.", instructed Finnick.

"The usual, Finnick?"

He nodded, and Hector presented him with a headpiece just like yours, although this had a slightly horrifying anatomically correct heart on it, clearly cut out from some sort of textbook, like yours.

And then there you were, squished into a photo booth nearly on Finnick Odair's lap.

"You know how this works, Finnick, yeah? Explain it to your girl, because my head is killing me.", grumbled Hector, and Finnick rolled his eyes, punching his chest.

"When is it not, with all that alcohol you drink, huh?", teased Finnick, before drawing the curtain. "Alright, so we're supposed to pose."

"Oh, I had no idea.", you gasped, sardonically.

"We're so cool, huh? Head and heart? How amazing is that?", he exclaimed, before gently directing your jaw to face the camera. "That's one. Three more. Wow me with your ability to not be annoying."

You scoffed. "You're one to fucking talk!", you hissed, at the same moment that he gasped at your use of the cuss word.

The photo clicked.

"Oh, so she does swear! Beautiful. Two more, honey, and then we're going to the beach."

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

His fingers traced the sand, aimless curves through it. "So, what do you think of District Four?", he asked, turning to you and squinting one eye to cover the glare from the sun.

"It's wonderful."

"Would you live here?"

"I wouldn't have minded it."

"So, you do understand why I miss it."

You thumbed over the copy of the photobooth pictures, shrugging. "Yeah, but we can't do anything about it. You agreed."

"I didn't agree to jackshit."

The breeze swallowed up his words, quiet as they were, but the anger festered.

He grunted as he stood up to go closer to the water, taking off that stupid fucking Capitol shirt and letting it flee with the wind. At least when he got to the water, you wouldn't be able to tell if it was his tears or the ocean.

"Whoa, wait, what do you mean b—"

But he was off before you could finish. Maybe he wanted you to race after him. Maybe he wanted you to turn him around so that he could hug you to avoid looking at your face. You'll never know. Perhaps he meant it that way. But holding Finnick Odair humanized him. And, to him, humanized you.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"Sticks."

"Stellar."

"Reeds."

"Stars."

"Seashells."

"Stop with the 's's!", you giggled, swatting at his shoulder.

He gripped your nose between two of his fingers, pinching it. "I want to spend New Years here."

"We can't, Finnick, you know we can't, I'll get in trouble, you'll get in trou—"

"We have to. We have to. There's so much you, oh my god, you'd love the knot-tying, no, no, we have cupcake-wars, which is like, self-explanato— we quite literally have to stay, for my sanity."

"Why are you so insufferable?", you muttered.

He cleared his throat. Oh, no. What had you done?

"Well, I won't lie and say I haven't got that one before.", he parroted you from earlier in a voice that was such a poor attempt at mimickery you almost got offended. "But I just think it's me being incredibly dedicated to the assignment I was given, which is making sure you stay here— god, that was terrible, how did you listen to that with a straight face?"

"Who said I was listening? I spaced out after "assignment", man."

He laughed until the silence prompted him to stop.

But he fought it.

"You should wear the District Four outfit more often, though.", he mumbled, trying his best not to blurt out every thought in his head if only to sort his mind out and quiet it down.

"Yeah? Why?"

"It's perfect on you. Like you were made for it. Or something."

"You mean, it was made for me."

"No, not necessarily.", he informed matter-of-factly, allowing himself a moment to look at your side profile in the night. That looked like it was made for him. "It's not always things being made for people."

"No?"

He shook his head, moving so he was hovering above you. "But you know what it always is?"

"Mm?"

"People being made for people."

It didn't surprise you, really, that line. Seemed on-brand.

He gently guided you up so that he could be eye-level with you. "You're my piece of District Four. You and...", he murmured, gently pulling out the photos from his pocket. "...and this."

You nodded.

"You're okay with that?"

"The blinds are closed, Finnick. I promise."

That's what prompted the kiss. It shut you up for a good long while, and it really calmed him down, too. He grinned, forehead on yours, before a tiny gasp left him. "Almost forgot. Here."

A tiny circular locket glistened under the moonlight on your palm.

Your brows furrowed as you allowed him to pepper multiple kisses on your cheek. "Your locket? Isn't it your mother's?"

He nodded. "Look what I'm wearing."

You looked down. Your anchor-pendant.

You were both each other's piece of District Four, and now you had each other's piece of District Four.

This was the most poetic thing to happen to him since birth.

Take that, Snow.

Everything was coming up Finnick.

[etherealily]

Ohhhhhh my god Tally 😭💗💗💗

The phone lick is sooo accurate I'm crying

Also THANK YOU??? THE HOTTEST THING YOU'VE EVER READ IS INSANEEEE

Plus why are every single one of those memes ON POINT???

I'm trying to explain how much I giggled seeing your reply but I can't articulate it 😭

Also what do you mean??? YOU write heaps prettier than I do 🫶🫶

ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

(I promise I will fix the images I made them at 3 am 😭)

For @g0lden-sky. I love you, and I hope this is what you meant in this ask <3. If it sucks, tell me.

Desc. : You really can't just stop knowing someone.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Well, fuck."

He's a strong man, yes, but it's been years.

He's a strong man, yes, but every fibre of his being was angling for a glimpse at you, just one.

Lemon nudged his elbow as if he didn't have fucking eyes. "Wonder what she goes by, now."

"Probably not Lemon.", he scoffed back. "She's probably out of the fucking business, mate, alright? We'll just slip past."

Were you summat boring, a desk job? Or were you a wife? Oh, god, what if he looked down, past the legs of passers-by and there was a ring on your finger, or a child clinging to you?

And so, he looked. He allowed himself a moment, and he scanned you. No child, no ring, no carpal tunnel. You were most likely still in the business. Alright, that's good, because that meant you were a rival, and resentment was an emotion he could work with.

Hate, he could work with. Disdain? Please. Cake-walk.

But whatever this was? The yearn for lost time? He struggled a bit. Wasn't in his training, was it? Thankfully, he walked away unscathed by your presence, one that's usually daggering to him.

Fucking phew. Great. Who cares? He could move on, finish the fucking job and then— "Oi!" Fuck, Lemon.

Weeding through the crowd, practically running, you slipped away from him once more, and he shared a look with his brother.

Tangerine's fists clenched and relaxed. He counted down from ten. He took deep breaths. He licked his lips. He tried not to have a fucking aneurysm.

"What're the chances I've become really fucking handsome now, and she was turned on to the point of fleeing?", asked Lemon, nudging him once again before they followed after you.

When they finally got to you — you did not make it easy — they found themselves staring down the barrel of a gun each, trapped against an abandoned freight elevator. Their hands shot up in surrender — not an easy thing to achieve, so kudos. It's been ages since they'd done that.

"You're not our target."

"Heard that one before."

Tangerine's hand nearly accidentally dropped (dangerous), with how hearing your voice after more than a decade had startlingly affected him. Pathetic, really. But he recovered, clearing his throat. "Well, unless you're an eighty year old bloke called fuckin' Maurice, you're not our target."

Your eyes narrowed — the same eyes he's not sure he's ever quite forgotten — before the guns lowered cautiously, steadily. "You need to off Maurice?"

"He's your target, too?"

Licking your lips, you shook your head, huffing. "Not exactly. 'M just supposed to break into his hotel room, into his safe, and get whatever's in there. AMN."

Any Means Necessary.

Lemon clapped his hands together, startling you and causing you to instinctively raise the gun at him once more. "Whoa. I— I was just about to say that this works out quite nicely, yeah?"

You and Tangerine scoffed at the same time. "How?"

"You'll need him..." — Lemon clicked his tongue and ran a thumb across his throat — "... out of the way. And we're being paid to do that, yeah? Makes sense to work together."

"No, fuck off, mate, not a chance in hell. We do our thing, she does hers.", grumbled Tangerine, yanking at Lemon's elbow. "C'mon."

"Do you really not trust us?", asked Lemon, gently, as though he were calming a bear and not a paranoid assassin with two guns.

Your glare softened, and you shrugged, ardently avoiding eye contact. "Would you?"

"Fair point. But we're not interferin' with each other, though, yeah? Just aidin'. C'mon."

Why you went was a mystery to all parties involved.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

He'd never really noticed how bloody blue his eyes are. Piercing. It's actually offending him, right now. Ugh. But what other choice did he have but to stay in the bathroom and glare at his own reflection after about ten ice cold splashes (and one warm one that he did not like) over his face while you and Lemon guardedly debriefed each other in a hotel room across the floor from the target?

Well. Yeah, he could be out there, where the conversations are being had, but no. He'd have to look at you again.

To be fair, it was his fault, he'd been nothing short of a prick to you the whole way to the hotel, with comments and scoffs at every fucking thing you said, so much so that Lemon had tried to convince you he was just severely sleep-deprived, and all but ordered him to go wash his face or summat.

And so, here he was.

His fingers slid over his jaw and flicked any residual droplets off his face before he sighed, flipping himself off in the unnecessarily swanky mirror. "Bell-end. Bell-end. Knob.", he gritted out, shaking his head.

When had he turned into such a dickhead?

He took another deep breath. Counted down from ten again. Twisting the doorknob, he opened the door.

And what lovelier sight to be met with than the two of you kneeling on opposite ends of the table, glaring over the guns you'd placed there (for a show of good faith) like some sort of hostile, antagonistic coffee date?

"Right, what's all this, then?"

Grunting as he stood, and then laughing for god-knows-what-reason, Lemon thumbed at the door. "I'm doin' recon. Makin' sure he hasn't been tipped off."

"I can do it."

Lemon patted his chest, shouldering past him. "Nah, mate. Dibs."

"Lemon—"

"My codename, by the way.", informed Lemon, grinning back at you with a tiny bow.

"—I will shoot you in the fuckin' mouth."

"Sorry, mate. Dibs is sacred. And so's childhood.", he added, lowering his tone.

He hated this.

He hated when his brother played shrink.

He hated when he started with his stupid Thomas the Tank Engine analogies.

But there was nothing on God's green earth that he hated more than the fact that he couldn't hold his liquor for shit, because he'd lost the drinking game with Lemon.

Which is why he was here in front of you, after twelve years, with the codename Tange-fucking-rine.

Shoot him now.

"I'm Tangerine, if you were wonderin'.", he mumbled, clearing his throat. "What's your codename?" He'd say anything to make sure fucking "Tangerine" wasn't the last thing to ring through the room like a tuning fork.

"Don't have one. I dunno. This time, didn't feel like it."

You looked down, then. What was that about?

"That's unprofessional."

You snorted. "So's collaboration.", you said, gesturing between the two of you, and then at the gun-laden table you were still kneeling in front of.

"Yeah, but collaboration is just dangerous, not stupid-dangerous, like 'no codenames' is."

"With you two, yeah, it is stupid.", you mumbled, searching through the collection of firearms for yours.

"That's why you're sticking to petty theft like a fuckin' Oliver Twist character, and we're quite literally deemed "the best" in the business."

"I'm sorry, Citrus.", you scoffed, standing. "What the fuck do you think my last job was?"

"Pickin' locks?"

"I had to do three cleanups back-to-back, because no one does it like me. A mil' each, easy."

He rolled his eyes. What a fuckin' braggart.

"Geezer's back from the buffet!"

Brilliant.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"No, no, we've got all the time in the world, we just have a bloody decaying body under our feet, so by all means, take your time."

"Tangerine, shut up, let her do her thing."

"We shoulda just left when we had the chance, instead we're here riskin' our arses because she can't crack into a bloody safe!"

"I'm done, alright?", you hissed, hands covering your eyes as the safe opened, the lights glinting off the contents and practically blinding you.

"Straight out a Tarantino film, innit?", remarked Lemon, whistling lowly, the gold of the safe reflecting in his eyes.

Saluting the body, you slung the backpack you'd stuffed everything into over your shoulder, standing. "Pay my respects to Mr. Maurice for me."

He had to get a fucking grip, honestly. He was barely keeping from screaming at you to stay.

But, no. You were absolute chaos for him, and he was chaos for you. It's best you never saw each other again.

"What was that about?", he murmured, after you left.

"Mm?"

"That one. Absolute piece of work, yeah?", he said, thumbing behind him, at the door you've just walked out of. "Seemed off, though.", he added, offhandedly.

"What, after fifteen years? Yeah, I s'pose she's off. She's different, more like."

"Twelve, and she looks tired."

"And what do I look like, mate? Been walkin' around the fucking floor like a fuckin' guard dog makin' sure this old coot finished his plate at the buffet and gave us enough time to set up ; I'm exhausted. And we've got the flight to bloody Bolivia tonight.", Lemon grumbled, shaking his head.

He couldn't blame Lemon, really. Sure, nostalgia was a thing, but it was one that, for normal people like you and Lemon, would pass in the blink of an eye. But when had Tangerine ever been fucking normal?

"Bit of a legend, was he?", remarked Lemon, flicking at the Rolex on Maurice's wrist. "They don't even make these anymore."

"If you grave-rob, I will fuckin' riot.", he muttered, distractedly.

"Mr. Fancy Pants over here has Marlboros and shite."

Marlboros! Nicotine! Oh, yes! Oh, fuck. Alright. Nicotine.

He hasn't had a cigarette in thirty-six hours, and on top of that, he saw you ; of course he'd be all worked up. No wonder. Alright. He can rest easy now.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

Fresh off seventeen kills and a migraine, Tangerine really did not have time for this absolute bull. Honestly. In the span of, say, two bloody weeks, you'd shown up twice, and he didn't like that.

He used to know you better than the back of his hand, and now?

Both of your hands are painted with unfamiliar scars.

"You gonna go say 'hi'?"

"What, with this thing hangin' off my arm?", he scoffed, gesturing at The Son of the fucking White Death. "I'd rather not parade 'im about, all unconscious-like."

"Mate."

He was still glaring at you, and it took a couple thumps to his shoulder to make him turn. "What?"

"Don't be a James."

"Here we fuckin' go.", mumbled Tangerine, shaking his head. "I swear, this bloke wakes up, you'll find his ears bleedin', 'cause you've been on and on about bloody Thomas The Tank Engine the entire fuckin' journey to Tokyo."

"Listen, James fucked up so much because of one thing. What was it?", asked Lemon, pointing his finger at him, with his other hand on his shoulder like a mentor.

"Bein' low-quality animation?"

"Pride. Pride. He was so bloody proud of his bloody red paint job that he—", he cut himself off, though, rubbing at his nape. "Alright, if there really is somethin' off with her, this is your chance to gloat that you're better at readin' people than me."

Huh.

See, that incentivised him more than being compared to some annoying red, animated train.

~~

"We must stop meetin' like this."

Your head swivelled around, and he's sure he could sort of see the faintest, dimmest hint of the spark he'd seen across from him on the see-saw all those years back...? He couldn't be entirely sure.

You smiled, which was a good sign, but the spark wasn't fully there, and he hated it. You moving to the window seat so he could sit by you, stretching? Proof you weren't a total cunt now that you're all grown up.

"You goin' to Tokyo, then?"

"No, connecting flight to Seoul and then I'm off. The stop before Tokyo.", you added, when he looked at you as if you'd explained it all in Greek.

He nodded, flicking at the headphones on the seat pocket once he wrangled them out of it. "Right."

"You're going to Tokyo?"

"Yeah. Been dragging this poor boy all the way from Bolivia to now bloody São Paulo, and then another connecting flight— god, it's exhausting. His old man's so rich, shouldn't he be gettin' a private jet or summat?", he sighed, his hand rubbing over his eyes in sheer fatigue.

"Wouldn't that be the first place his enemies look, though?"

"How about you stop with the logic, yeah? 'S annoying."

The two of you laughed for a bit, and the nostalgia shot him in the mouth. Didn't seem to for you, though, you were avoiding eye contact like you'd been caught robbing Maurice.

He tried his best to stay patient as you looked out the window, tried to focus on getting his arm off the armrest because the aisles were clogged up with passengers brushing past. He moved to the middle seat. One seat closer to you.

More silence. Why did he let Lemon talk him into this?

He didn't know what to say, but he knew what he wouldn't say. Summat dumb like "you're lookin' well", or "how you been?", or — god forbid — "long time, no see".

"So. What you been doin' all this time?"

God. So much for not being dumb.

A shrug. You were infuriating.

"Me? Lemon and I, we have quite a bit of fun, actually.", he continued. "Made a name for ourselves and that. What about you? You been doin' Burke, I s'pose?"

"Not "doing" Burke, but yeah, he's still my handler.", you chuckled, biting the inside of your cheek. "But just been doin' jobs, y'know? Just... whatever."

"Whatever?", he pushed, furrowing his brows. "Thought you had fun on the job. You alright?"

"'M fine."

Tangerine nodded, fiddling with the headphones again.

"If it was what I said in Dubai, I was just bein' a bastard, tryna get under your skin, and, to be fair, I was cranky 'cause I got no sleep.", he muttered.

"Well then, maybe go to sleep, then. 'S a long flight."

In his own seat, you meant. He could take a hint.

"Wow. Twelve years, and you still don't wanna look back.", he grumbled, standing up to leave.

But he couldn't. Not when you grabbed his wrist.

"What?"

Alright, mate, c'mon, now's your time to shine. Wow her.

"At me. You don't wanna look back at me, maybe see that you're bein' a bit of a bitch."

Alright, not the best start, callin' her a bitch, but it's alright, it's alright, we can recover.

"A bitch? For not wanting t—"

A quick flick of his wrist and suddenly, it was him grabbing yours. "Come with me, yeah?"

He was genuinely lucky you listened.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Alright, now that there's no witnesses if one of us bloody kills the other, can you tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"

"Listen, mate, we don't know each other anymore. I'm not about to have some makeshift therapy session in an airplane bathroom because we pinky-promised or summat when we were six!", you whisper-yelled, and all the air was knocked out of him.

The spark. It blazed. It was you —fucking finally — sitting in front of him.

"We actually crossed our hearts, but I won't take that personally.", he muttered, solemnly.

A moment, and he couldn't help the smile (though he was a worthy competitor against it) when you started snickering.

"Fuck, we were corny."

"Yeah.", he agreed, nodding. "But we were also best mates."

"Right."

"Pisses me off, though."

"What?"

"The fact that anytime I hear 'best mate', I'm immediately thinking of — and looking around for — you."

"I thought that was Lemon out there."

"No, he's my brother. Brothers are different, he means so much to me that we have no choice but to get on with each other. You, though.", he huffed.

"Me, though?"

He shook his head, flicking your forehead. "You, though.", he muttered, somehow managing to move closer and hold your jaw with one hand. "You're something else. I have a choice, and I'm still tryin' to get on with you. So get on with it. Spit it out."

"I have a choice, and I don't want to."

Ugh! Could you not back-talk him for once in your fucking life?! Why did he even try? What was even the fucking point?

You'd leave at Seoul, and if you were so inclined, you'd share a handshake or two, he and Lemon would be off with the bloke in Tokyo, and then you'd all be on your merry ways.

As it should be.

But then, a vision. A flash, and suddenly, he was seven years old again, grinning at you after the recruiters came and went.

"We're gettin' adopted."

"We're gettin' recruited.", he reminded. "You did so well."

"I choked, is what I did."

If he thought you seemed vulnerable now, he'd have melted for seven-year-old you.

"No, no, trust me, none of the other girls assembled that gun as fast as you." "You sure?" "I was watching."

He figured that maybe a similar segue may be able to fill in the silence. Even if you didn't respond immediately, at least you'd be stabbed with unsettling nostalgia that got you to open up.

"You were very quick with the gun. Back in Dubai."

Furrowing your brows, you tore your gaze away from the bathroom door and fixed it back up at him. "...Thank you?"

"'S not a compliment. 'S an observation."

"Observations can be compliments."

"Yeah, but not this one.", he shot back. A pause. "You bein' hunted?"

"No." No. Well, that's good. He didn't need to become a target, too.

"I was quick with the gun because it's a high-profile job. 'M not bein' hunted."

He let out a low whistle, nodding as he looked past you for a moment. "Just tryin' to make conversation.", he muttered, running his hands over his face, and then hair, and then suit, and finally deciding on firmly perching them onto the edge of the sink.

"Maybe don't."

When has he ever listened to you?

"Hey. If you could look at me, that'd be fuckin' fantastic. Yeah, there you go. Stop bein' all secretive and fuckin' tell me why you look like you're about to jump off this fuckin' plane."

It's like he'd never changed. Yeah, sure, he's taller, fitter, and the muscles he'd claimed to have when he was thirteen had seemed to take the hint and actually show up, but he's still the annoying little twat that would mock you for having feelings while simultaneously moving hell and back (to the extent of his abilities) to solve your problems for you.

So, for your best mate, you sighed.

"I'm tired, alright?! I feel like shit, and I dunno why! Alright? Probably something in the air."

Something in the air. God, you were getting on his fucking nerves.

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring for a moment, before nodding, reaching into his pocket. "You had any cigs lately?"

What?

"No."

"See, that's a problem, that.", he explained, pointing a ringed finger at you as if he'd just deigned you with the knowledge of the century, and you were supposed to give him your firstborn as thanks. "Nicotine solves half of all that."

The flame flickered in front of his eyes momentarily before he flicked the lighter off, handing the lit cig to you.

"Are you mockin' me?"

Jesus fuck, I'm caring, you absolute twat.

He moved closer still. Gripped your jaw even harder. Used said grip to shake your jaw after each word he said, to prove his point.

"All you are is your job. Your work. You don't think you're even a person anymore, and you're tired of that."

It was adorable, you glaring at him while he shook your jaw.

"Let me go."

"You're not sure who you are, and it scares you, because everyone else seems to."

You hissed his name, his real name, and he nearly dropped his hand from your jaw. The last person to ever utter his name had also been the first person to do so, twelve years later? That's some chaotic shite right there.

"You're terrified that you don't matter. And you're terrified that whatever you wanna do, whatever you wanna make of your life, you'll never fuckin' get it, because you've got Burke and your job on your fuckin' arse all the time. Yeah?"

He had to chill out about Burke. You'd catch on.

Your jaw clenched under his fingers, and the corner of his lip turned up just a tad. "Blink twice if I'm right.", he teased, his forehead nearly on yours.

"Fuck off."

He simpered at the force of your shove. Still no match for his assholic streak, his impishness, the absolute cheek and audacity imbibed in his blood.

"Ah, so I'm right on the fuckin' money, then.", he grinned, rubbing your bottom lip between his fingers, forming a pout. "I'll fuck right off after you admit it."

When you stayed silent, he offered you the cigarette once more.

"I don't smoke. Put that out. 'S not allowed, anyway."

"If it weren't allowed, they wouldn't have this thing over here, now would they?", he asked, tapping at the ashtray on the wall.

And then... look, whatever. He's an idiot. We've established this. He's an idiot, and he's a bit of an arsehole, let's be honest.

He didn't know why he did it, in all honesty. Bathroom's already really fucking cramped, so this was really not the best thing for him to be doin', unless he wanted to induce fucking claustrophobia.

Snogging an already pissed-off assassin in an airplane bathroom was right up there with the dumbest things he'd ever done in his life. For instance, two years ago, having to crash a child's birthday party because of mistaken identity.

"Oi, what—"

What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?!

"Mm? Sorry, couldn't hear you over this snog, sorry? What?", he murmured against your lips. What a bastard!

"What's wrong with y—"

"I was right on the money, wasn't I? As I said, I'll fuck right off if you just admit it."

"FINE!"

"Yeah?"

"Fine! Yeah, sure, fuck off. You might be right."

"Wanna know how I know?"

"Some other member of the Fruit Bowl told you? Grapefruit or Lime, or summat?"

He chuckled at that, his hands on the back of your head, gluing your forehead to his. "No, it's 'cause I know you."

"Oh, please, fuck off, for fuck's sake! Twelve years, you haven't known me, please don't give me that bullshit, how thick d'you think I am?", you hissed.

He liked that you made no move to pull away.

But he didn't like what you'd just said.

His brows furrowed for a moment, and he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits right now, do you seriously think you can just stop knowing someone?"

"Twelve years is—"

"Nothing. Twelve years is nothing. Fuck. 'M not a sap, but you sure are makin' me out to be one.", he mumbled, his jaw ticking. "Listen, hey. I'm not about to entertain myself with whatever's wrong with you, or anythin'. Just... figured I've got Lemon, if shit goes south, who've you got? Not like Burke is gonna play therapist."

Licking your lips, you looked down. "Fuck off, alright? We've been in here too long. They're gonna think we're shagging in here."

"'S long as we're not smokin', yeah?", he mimicked, gesturing at the ashtray.

"It's not allowed."

"Neither was collaboration, but we did it.", he muttered, with a tiny pat to your cheek before he manoeuvred you to look up at him again. "You'll be fine. Alright? I've gone through this before."

"What'd you do about it?"

God, he was not going to beat the sap allegations, was he?

"Thought about you, alright? Not just you, o'course. Me, you, and then, after he was transferred there, Lemon, too. All of us in that foster home. Figured those three pint-sized-pricks would judge me for thinkin' life is hard now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're... we're fighters, yeah? Survivors and that. We'll be fine because we have to be. It's our part-time job."

He tilted his head down at you. Whoa. You were actually, seriously thinking about his word vomit.

"Now, back to that fuckin' snog.", he murmured, with a sharp jerk to your jawline with his thumb.

And then, again, unexpected but not unwanted, you found yourself in an airplane bathroom snogging a guy you didn't think you'd ever see again in your adult life, with probably twice the fervour he had. Pathetic.

It's like neither of you never learn. It's all temporary with him.

You'll part ways at Seoul, and he'll go onto Tokyo with that sorry-looking passed-out-kid and you'll probably never cross paths again, but here you both were, kissing like you'll have a thousand more in your life.

Always taking things for granted.

Exactly like he was back at the foster home, always doing what he wanted.

Always pissing you off.

Always knowing you to an annoying extent.

Always being your best mate.

God, pulling away was gonna hurt like a bitch.

[etherealily]

ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟɪɴᴅꜱ // ꜰ.ᴏᴅᴀɪʀ

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

This was from my poll .

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Cuss words. Slightly longer.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Capitol-bred, out-of-touch, insensitive. You're everything he hates. But not quite. You're a crisis of his faith hate.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

Finnick hated this. He hated that he didn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night than move in to an apartment at the Capitol.

His best mates are at home, prepping the entire District two weeks before New Year's Eve, something he loved doing, and he was here, with a shiny old key to a dull new apartment. A penthouse, as if he cared.

As an extra-cruel addition, Snow had apparently installed venetian blinds that, when closed, looked like the ocean. Finnick felt like a chimp in an enclosure with trees painted on the wall, to make him "feel right at home". This is what you can't have, Finnick. What rightfully belongs to you. Jump around, little monkey.

Armed with the key and whatever possessions he could scrounge up that he didn't mind losing here at the Capitol (and a couple that he needed for sanity reasons that he would die if he lost, stored deep in his bag), he glared at the door. It was so fucking gaudy, he could break it down.

He put the key into the lock. The door swung open before he even turned it. It was unlocked?

Gingerly, he stepped in, dropping his bags onto the nearest chair and taking cautious step after cautious step into the room, half-expecting Snow to come out and give him one of those speeches that didn't do anything but show Finnick how absolutely out-of-touch he was.

Instead, he saw you.

"Uh, hello?"

You turned, slightly startled, from the venetian blinds that you'd been observing, before you smiled politely. "Hello, you must be Finnick."

Great! Just fucking great! Not only was he having to live in the fucking Capitol, now he was having a Capitol-bred roommate? Snow hadn't told him that!

"Yeah, uh, hi."

You gave him your name, reaching over to shake his hand. Huh. Where had he seen you before?

"Do I have to sleep on the couch, or...?", he laughed nervously, gesturing at the singular bed in the room.

You frowned. "I mean, y'know, if you want to? Is that how you sleep in the Districts?"

Beg fucking pardon? "What?"

"I'm sorry, did that offend? I wasn't given the proper greetings to use with you."

"Listen, if we're gonna be roommates, we're gonna need some ground rules—"

He didn't like your immediate sharp laugh at that. "Roommates? No, god, no. We're not roommates.", you informed, diligently.

"Then who the hell are you?"

Though evidently mildly taken aback by his use of the profanity, your cheery demeanor never faded. "Uh, no, I'm your mentor."

The world stopped, for a moment. The Games again? What?! This was not the fucking deal!

"Mags Flanagan was my mentor.", he replied, quietly and cautiously.

"Oh! Oh, yes, yes, sorry, yes, she was your mentor for the Hunger Games. I am your Capitol Fixture Mentor.", you announced, as if he was supposed to clap.

His what-fucking-who-now?

"One more time?"

"Your Capitol Fixture Mentor."

"English, please."

"You've been given this penthouse because President Snow thinks you're doing so well that you deserve to stay here."

Deserve. "Mhm?"

"So, you'll become a Fixture here at the Capitol. Capitol Fixture. And I'm here to help shape you right up."

He knew he must have looked like a jerk, his head tilted to the side as he eyed you up and down. You must have felt exposed, judged, even. And you'd be right. He was judging you hard. Who the hell did you think you were, unsettlingly-enthusiastic young thing — younger than him, actually — in your stupid Capitol outfit with your stupid Capitol makeup and your stupid Capitol dialect, telling him he needed to be changed`? Eurgh.

"Shape me up? Into what, exactly?", he challenged, his arms crossed.

"President Snow wants to put you in more advertisements, more promotions, y'know? More public appearances and whatnot. Make you someone of worth out here."

"I won the Games, little girl, I am of worth, and the deal was that if I won the Games, I could live out the rest of my life at home, in the Victor's Village, so you can t—" He cut himself off then. He couldn't threaten Snow back, he'd burn down his house, easy. "He told me I could go home.", he gritted out, his voice level and patient.

You frowned, the corners of your lips turning down. "Oh. I wasn't informed of such an arrangement. But I think you might like to know th—"

"I would like to know when I can go home and visit my family.", he spat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll... I'll go recheck if you want.", you mumbled.

"Yeah, I'd appreciate that.", he scoffed, watching you nod and leave.

What did Snow take him for? He'd already been having to try to live with the fact that the darling President had had him going on call after call to the Patrons, renting him out for God knows how much, but fuck, Finnick might actually drown himself if he had to go about promoting the Capitol, the Games.

Ugh, at least he could finally—

"They turned me right around.", you explained, defensively, as if he was about to maul you for being directed back in by Peacekeepers. Was it true, then? Did the Capitol really think people from the Districts were all animals?

Guilt prodded at him. You were a kid, what was he doing?

"Alright, it's okay. Just... relax. I'll unpack. Pretend like you already told me whatever you were instructed to t—", he sighed, in sudden realization. "You're mic'd."

"I am." Okay, if this was what you'd been trying to tell him all along, he was officially an absolute jerk.

Shaking his head, he yanked his bag from his chair. Apparently, it was unzipped, because he heard some stuff falling from it, but turning back would just be embarrassing. He had to save face.

In the mirror, he could see you frowning down at his clothes and bending over to pick them up.

"Leave them.", he ordered, not turning back.

"On the floor? Is that... is that how you keep them in the Districts? Because that's what the armoire is for."

"Alright, listen, kid, if you're gonna quote-unquote "mentor me", we're gonna have to set some ground fucking rules, alright?", he snapped, using air quotes before pointing at you as he swiveled around.

You nodded quickly. Yeesh. You were clearly going to make a habit of making him feel bad for his brashness, that's for sure.

"Number one : you don't talk about my District ever. Ever. I don't care what the context is, alright? Someone asks you to name all the Districts, you go "One, Two, Three, Five, Six, and so on." You get me? Not a word about my Four."

You nodded again.

"They don't teach you the word "Yes" here at the Capitol?"

"Yes."

"Good. Rule number two : you do not get to talk about the Games. You hear me?"

"Yes."

"Last rule. You're gonna...", he trailed off, reaching into his pocket for a pen of some sort. "You're gonna...", he struggled, trying to come up with a last rule to satisfy any listening ears. What is something Snow would expect him to fucking say?

As he was scrambling for an end to the sentence, he managed to find a pen at the edge of its life. Would have to do. He grabbed for your hand, scrawling on it : 'Give me a signal if you're mic'd.'

A finger at his lips.

"...Gonna not change you entirely?", you offered, nodding silently at the note on your palm.

Yeah, that'd be something Snow expected him to say. Okay, not bad.

He watched you open the blinds, the taunting ocean from Four disappearing, and sunlight shining through. That was your signal that you were mic'd.

"Yes.", he muttered, making sure whoever was listening in got that down. "Not change me entirely. I still wanna be Finnick, no matter what sort of training you give me."

"Alright. I, uh, accept your conditions."

"Rules."

"I'm President-appointed. These are conditions."

Alright, touché, he just got his ass handed to him in five words, he'll shut up.

"What were you supposed to do, again?"

"Well, today was just supposed to be about settling you in."

"Oh, you're the help, today?", he scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Thought I'd get an Avox. Fine. Whatever. Just sit there while I unpack."

And, to his immediate guilt, you did. Fuck.

After about five minutes of silent unpacking, he sighed. Least he could do is humour you. "What's tomorrow?"

"Saturday?"

He snorted. "No, I mean what's... what's the itinerary?", he asked, gratefully accepting the hanger you offered him, before hanging a shirt onto it and propping it onto the rod inside the armoire.

"Oh, speaking. I tell you possible questions you may be asked, and how to avoid ones you don't know."

You talked so enthusiastically about this, he suddenly understood that you knew everything but the most important things about him. You knew he was seventeen going on eighteen. You knew he had won the Games. You knew he was from District Four. You knew he was very cooperative with Snow, maybe even (in your eyes) one of his "favourites"`.

But you didn't know what he was being forced to do.

You didn't know why he was a "favourite".

The agonized, traumatized sadist in him wanted to burst your bubble. To tell you. But these are not things that one does.

"Do it today. Since we're not, y'know, doing anything."

You nodded. "Alright. One moment."

You pulled a tiny notebook out of your pocket and he hid a scoff. "Alright, you are not to talk about the Games. Unless you become a mentor, that is."

"But Mags is the mentor for Four."

"For now. Mags is nearly seventy.", you explained, clearly not knowing how close he was to screaming and screeching and storming into Snow's home and shooting him point-blank in the head for making him mentor kids younger than him to die, too.

"Right.", he muttered, blowing at some dust as he placed his collection of shells at his bedside.

"In the Rip, you must have a huge screen. They always do, right, in the Districts? To watch th— um, to watch things on."

The Rip was a special part of District Four, Finnick's favourite, because when the Peacekeepers weren't looking, there was an old man who had a camera and props, and would take photos of you for a fair price. And he'd manage to print them out somehow, as well, by pulling a lot of strings, and then you'd get a physical copy of it.

Only during holidays, though. Strictly.

Good, you didn't mention the Games.

"Yes, we have a screen."

"Good. So, you might have watched uh... interviews..."

"With the tributes. Yeah."

"Yes. You might have noticed that their audios may not always sync up with the video."

Yes, he had, actually. "Yes? That's a... it's called a glitch, right?"

The corners of your lips tugged to the side in a grimace, before you shook your head. "Usually, yeah, but not when it comes to the G— not in this case."

Okay, this, he did not know. "Elaborate."

"With pleasure.", you scoffed under your breath, and he decided that was a little too adorable to be taken as smart-mouthing, so he let it slide. "Sometimes, people say things that could be misconstrued as anti-Panem which, of course, as a tribute is never the intention, but it tends to happen."

He remembered his own Games, how happy he was to be there, how much he was looking forward to honouring the Capitol. And then he got there, and Mags had retained her sweetness, and suddenly, Finnick's goal was no longer to win the Games and honour the Capitol, it was to win the Games to honour his District and his family, his District Partner (if she didn't make it) and Mags.

"Tends to happen.", he mumbled, rubbing at his jawline.

"Yeah. And editing the feed, especially live feeds, is very risky, complicated and costly. You need to know how to speak, not edit. Alright? We cannot afford to keep editing what you say."

"And what is this line of questioning?", he scoffed.

"Do you miss District Four?"

"What kind of ques— yes, of course, it's my home, I fucking hate this place."

An imaginary gun, composed of two of your fingers was pointed at him, and you fired it. "Wrong."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I'll just not answer."

"And make yourself look more guilty of treason?"

"Alright, what am I supposed to say?"

"Be as truthful as you can. Until you can't."

"Solid advice. You should be on TV."

You cocked the imaginary gun again. "So, Finnick Odair. You're from District Four. Do you miss it at all?"

He gnawed on his upper lip for a moment, his mind racing on what would happen if he just jumped out the door, beat up the Peacekeepers, shot Snow, and ran back home to his District Four. But whoa. No. He needed to answer, or god forbid, this annoying little Capitol girl would imaginarily blow his fucking brains out.

"I... miss... my family...", he began, and was only encouraged by your tiny smile. Alright, clearly he was on the right track. "...And, yeah, sure, I grew up in District Four, so... that's my home—"

"No. Uh, you had it until you said 'home'. You can't make the District look better than the Capitol. If it was, wouldn't everyone just move there?"

"It is, though."

"For you. Because you're so comfortable there, because you grew up there. You can't suggest that it's better than the Capitol."

"How should I answer, then?"

"Ask me something."

"Why are you so insufferable?", he snorted, before trying to rack his brain for an actual possible question to ask you. To his surprise, though, you cleared your throat.

"Well, I won't lie and say I haven't got that one before. But I just think it's me being incredibly dedicated to the assignment I was given, especially one to mentor someone as incredible as you, who really doesn't need mentoring, considering your phenomenal performance in the Games."

It's like you had a fucking script or something, that was fantastic.

"Whoa.", he murmured, tilting his head at you as if you were about to grow four heads or something.

"So, Finnick Odair. What is your favourite thing about now being a Capitol Fixture?"

He took a deep breath, looking into your eyes — fuck, those eyes! — before beginning. "The food. 100% the food. Although I grew up on District Four grub and it'll always hold a special place in my heart, the food here is the reason I understand the phrase "chef's kiss", now, honestly.", he explained, with a little charming chuckle at the end.

"The interviewers won't clap for you, Finnick, but I will.", you encouraged, and for the first time ever, he got applause that he felt like he deserved.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"What the hell — should I have made "don't let yourself into my apartment" one of the rules?!", he yelled, sitting up as he heard you in distinct conversation elsewhere, through the ruckus of all the men walking past you, covering you entirely, actually, before going through his personal belongings and either replacing them with shinier, more Capitol-y bullcrap, or just tossing it down onto the floor. Like his childhood wasn't pretty enough.

At least the blinds were closed.

The men ignored him, and he did start at them, but he heard your voice from somewhere within the chaos. "You make a fuss, it's all the more reason for them to throw things away, because it makes you liability."

What were all these new rules he wasn't informed of but expected to know?!

Too many people, so he couldn't see you, but he could hear you over the shuffle of clothes and the clangs of trinkets being thrown haphazardly. "Hi, sir, this was a gift I got for my Fixture."

The burly man raised a brow, picking up the locket. His mother's. It must have fallen out of his bag, which is why you knew what it was. "You got a man a locket?", he asked, skepticism blooming in his voice.

"I didn't know that a locket was a particularly feminine thing. I spent a majority of my childhood at sea, you'll have to excuse me.", you replied, smiling and looking down.

"So you're, like... absolutely clueless?"

"Pretty much.", you giggled. "Embarrassing, huh?"

He couldn't see how you were doing it, but as much as he could eavesdrop, you used a different tactic for salvaging each item. "It would really be a cute token, I think, a seashell-collection? It's part of who he is, right?", or "It makes him look multi-faceted, that drawing. He isn't just a Victor, he's an artist. He's deep."

It took a while for them to leave. He'd been fiddling with the annoying fucking blinds again, watching the picture appear and disappear (why was that the only thing they left untouched?) before you cleared your throat.

"Finally. Here, I managed to save your locket, your shells, this little drawing, the poem, and the message-in-a-bottle with sand in it."

He turned. He almost wished he hadn't.

Finnick's heart crawled up to his throat.

Finnick's heart stopped in his throat, actually. Butterflies were past tense for him, he was dealing with unnaturally sized dragonflies, that poked their stick-like bodies at every square inch of his stomach.

You were breathtaking.

"What, uh...", he laughed nervously for a moment, rubbing the back of his head. "What are you wearing?"

"I was told I had to."

"Why?", he asked, immediately, a heat creeping up the back of his neck. You looked way too perfect. You were wearing the classic District Four dress he'd seen girls wear, growing up, your hair put up in the same way, and clearly you'd been instructed to stand the same way, somehow, too. But the rest of your body language? You were undeniably uncomfortable in this. Not because of the simplicity, but maybe the texture. Your skin was too used to soft Capitol silks for this.

"I was told it'd make you feel more comfortable, and it would also help model your clothes for the press—"

"God, how "good" do you think our President is?!", he snapped.

"What?"

"It's not to make me more "comfortable", it's to let me know I'll never have a fucking tangible piece of District Four here with me! You being here, looking like... well, that, serves the same purpose as those fucking blinds, with the ocean on them! It's not to make me feel more at home, he needs me to know this isn't my home!"

"You can keep these clothes, and I salvaged your keepsakes, plus you can alw—"

"Always what? Visit District Four? Yeah, for, like, a week, with surveillance and cameras and posing. And the clothes?", he scoffed, flicking at the collar. "You're wildly uncomfortable in them! You won't like to wear them all the time so yes, I have no tangible piece of District Four here with me, and thank you for that, thank you and President Snow!", he spat, gesturing wildly at the blinds.

The silence roared in his ears.

You nodded, subtly. "I am uncomfortable in this, but I could wear it for longer, and we could get inspiration for your outfits from this."

He sighed. You just didn't get it. He rubbed at the side of his cheek in exasperation, "I won't expect you to, and he knows that. Because that would be changing who I was. That would be selfish. That would be him."

"I'm sorry you don't have District Four with you."

"You can take it all off, now. Change.", he cut you off, waving before he turned to give you privacy.

"I don't want to."

"Yes, you do. Two people in discomfort in one room is way too Capitol for me."

You smiled. "Alright. The bag doesn't have other clothes in it, though."

"It's fine, borrow some of the crap the Capitol put into my armoire."

"Yeah?"

"Go ahead, I won't miss it."

"Thank you, Finnick Odair."

"Finnick. Just call me Finnick."

"Thank you, Finnick."

He fiddled with the cords of the blinds again, watching the blue of the faux-ocean — the fauxcean — flicker as he did.

"Um, I'm done."

Alright, this was getting ridiculous. His excuse for the previous emergence of the dragonflies was that you were wearing District Four garb, and he could pretend that you reminded him of some crush of his youth. But now? You were wearing Capitol stuff, oddly patterned and bright, and you still looked radiant.

"Bit big, huh?"

"Yeah." You shook your arms to show the flap of excess cloth.

"But better?"

You nodded. "Yeah, sorry."

"Hey, your comfort zone's my discomfort zone and vice-versa. Don't sweat it.", he assured, taking the Four garments from you and refusing to let you fold it. "We fold it a bit differently. Mind?"

"No, not at all."

"You can take that off, too, don't worry about it."

"My clothes? Again?", you asked, tilting your head and frowning.

He snorted, pointing at a tiny necklace on you, the only thing about your remaining outfit that was simple. Well, besides your hair. And he was glad you never wore your hair like the rest of the Capitol people, because hair was the second thing he noticed in someone. After their eyes.

Whenever he met someone new, he always pictured how the ocean breeze would treat them. If it was nice to their hair, he'd be nice to them. If the ocean hated them, well, Finnick knew to stay away.

Alright. He was bumming himself out. What ocean breeze, Finnick? You're stuck here for an indefinite amount of time. Get it together.

"What about that?"

Instinctively, you clutched at it, furrowing your brows. "What about it?"

"It's not yours."

"Sure is!"

"Right. And this penthouse is my birthright."

"Listen, I have been nothing but nice to you, but I do not appreciate being called a liar!"

He slid his fingernail under the anchor-pendant, lifting it up to examine it. "That is only made in the districts. I should know, my neighbour was a master welder who made things exactly like this."

"My great-grandmother agreed to become a Capitol Fixture just like you after having a child with a Harrington! And she passed this down! So there!"

Had he just class-shamed a girl he didn't know? God, Snow was rubbing off on him.

"You're District?"

"No.", you muttered. "Part. My family is."

"Which one?", he urged.

A pause. "Four."

Ah, he thought so! He could see the resemblance to some of his neighbours, honestly. "That's why you were assigned to me. To taunt me that the only connection I have to Four is contaminated by Capitol."

"Contaminated? You think I'm contaminated?"

"No, you—", he sighed. Okay, yeah, that's what it sounded like. "You're just... you're not pure District. You have Capitol in you. As far as I know, your grandmother didn't get married, right? Because that would've ruined the Harringtons. So... your mother was a Capitol mix?"

"And that makes us tainted?"

"No, no, I just mean—"

"Listen, you're not better than me because I have Capitol in me, alright?"

"Hey, that's not what I said. I'm not better. I know that.", he replied, slowly, clearly and warmly. "I just said... Snow knows I'm itching for District Four. I miss my home, Y/N, alright? And you... you're perfect, but you're supposed to be a reflection of what I'm going to become in a couple years' time. More Capitol than District. You understand?"

"I don't think you understand just how much President Snow thinks about you. You think he's out here to make your life worse, but he had these special-ordered from your District, and even put up signs all over to ask for a stylist from your District."

He was this close to actually jumping out the window. "He did not put up any signs. And even if he did, no one will come, alright? They think I'm a sell-out." His voice broke out of sheer exhaustion at the last word, and he felt like he was about to collapse.

Thankfully, you didn't try to double-down on your notion that Snow was Finnick's guardian angel, and instead, played around with your hair. At least that's what it looked like, to him, but no, apparently you'd reached back to unclasp the necklace.

"Here. Tangible piece of District Four."

"Oh, come on, that's on purpose, you're just trying to be all 'I'm-the-bigger-person', I'm so kind even though you're a prick, boo-hoo-me, and it's fucking manipulative.", he spat, shoving your hand back towards you.

"Or maybe I really just am a good person, Odair!", you scoffed, slamming the tiny anchor-chain down onto the table beside him. "Otherwise, why would I have salvaged your trinkets?!"

"Go ahead! Throw something that comes from the Districts away! We're only disposable to you assholes, right? Though you're part District!", he called, as you tried storming away. "And WHY? Conveniently, no one's telling me why my shit's getting thrown to the floor!", he bellowed, his hands out wide in exaggerated questioning.

"There's a Finnick Odair Penthouse Apartment episode this week on Panem Properties by Link Domus!", you yelled back, slamming the door behind you as you were, once again, pushed back in by the Peacekeepers.

"What?!" Oh, he fucking hated that show with everything in his heart! He used to make fun of it with his family, and now he was going to be on it?!

You nodded. "There'll be a camera crew coming in this weekend, and we really can't have it looking shabby. It should increase sales of a lot of products."

Products he had never and will never use. Good to know.

"So, there's a deadline, now? You have to make me the ideal Capitol Fixture by the end of the week?"

"Welcome to my discomfort zone.", you scoffed.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"I'm surprised you're normal about this.", he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but you were so close together, it made sense you'd hear him. "My escort during the Games hated coming to the District, even though we're one of the cleanest ones."

"I need you calm. New Years is coming up, and that means parties and interviews and events.", you responded, sternly, clearly avoiding his gaze.

"Hey." A nudge to your shoulder. "Seriously. Thanks. Apparently, people think I'm some sort of ladies' man. Which I'm not, I'm seventeen, but, y'know, being able to breathe here in Four is gonna do wonders."

"Oh. So I was right about my hunch. They fabricated it to make you juicier."

"'Juicier'.", he scoffed. "Where did that stupid expression even come from?"

"I guess when fruits are juicier, they're more satisfying to sink your teeth into.", you suggested, shrugging as if you hadn't just hit the nail on the head. "

Sink your teeth into. How apt.

He didn't like how nervously you looked out the window, as if District Four residents would attack you for not acknowledging your roots. And then, he realized you only probably thought that because of him, and how he had actually attacked you for it.

Fuck. Everything was coming up Snow, wasn't it?

"The Rip has this really cool spot.", he whispered under his breath. "It's all very hush-hush, but there's this man, Hector, who takes amazing photos."

"Photos? Cameras? Aren't they bann—"

"Yes, but he's a friend. Shh. We'll get some taken."

"I don't want to take a photo with you."

"You will once you see Hector's booth."

~~~~

"So, you're saying you know everything about District Four, the entire topography, but this is your first time here?", inquired Hector, in sheer fascination, with his wizened smile and gravelly voice.

"Well, yes, I'm part-Harrington, I was given the maps, and when I was bored, I'd study them."

"You seem smart."

"I do?"

"Yes. Here."

You took the prop from him, a headpiece that had a pink brain springing up from it, that wobbled when your head moved. You let out a sharp laugh, looking at yourself in the mirror. "I look ridiculous."

"-Ly cool. Come on.", instructed Finnick.

"The usual, Finnick?"

He nodded, and Hector presented him with a headpiece just like yours, although this had a slightly horrifying anatomically correct heart on it, clearly cut out from some sort of textbook, like yours.

And then there you were, squished into a photo booth nearly on Finnick Odair's lap.

"You know how this works, Finnick, yeah? Explain it to your girl, because my head is killing me.", grumbled Hector, and Finnick rolled his eyes, punching his chest.

"When is it not, with all that alcohol you drink, huh?", teased Finnick, before drawing the curtain. "Alright, so we're supposed to pose."

"Oh, I had no idea.", you gasped, sardonically.

"We're so cool, huh? Head and heart? How amazing is that?", he exclaimed, before gently directing your jaw to face the camera. "That's one. Three more. Wow me with your ability to not be annoying."

You scoffed. "You're one to fucking talk!", you hissed, at the same moment that he gasped at your use of the cuss word.

The photo clicked.

"Oh, so she does swear! Beautiful. Two more, honey, and then we're going to the beach."

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

His fingers traced the sand, aimless curves through it. "So, what do you think of District Four?", he asked, turning to you and squinting one eye to cover the glare from the sun.

"It's wonderful."

"Would you live here?"

"I wouldn't have minded it."

"So, you do understand why I miss it."

You thumbed over the copy of the photobooth pictures, shrugging. "Yeah, but we can't do anything about it. You agreed."

"I didn't agree to jackshit."

The breeze swallowed up his words, quiet as they were, but the anger festered.

He grunted as he stood up to go closer to the water, taking off that stupid fucking Capitol shirt and letting it flee with the wind. At least when he got to the water, you wouldn't be able to tell if it was his tears or the ocean.

"Whoa, wait, what do you mean b—"

But he was off before you could finish. Maybe he wanted you to race after him. Maybe he wanted you to turn him around so that he could hug you to avoid looking at your face. You'll never know. Perhaps he meant it that way. But holding Finnick Odair humanized him. And, to him, humanized you.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"Sticks."

"Stellar."

"Reeds."

"Stars."

"Seashells."

"Stop with the 's's!", you giggled, swatting at his shoulder.

He gripped your nose between two of his fingers, pinching it. "I want to spend New Years here."

"We can't, Finnick, you know we can't, I'll get in trouble, you'll get in trou—"

"We have to. We have to. There's so much you, oh my god, you'd love the knot-tying, no, no, we have cupcake-wars, which is like, self-explanato— we quite literally have to stay, for my sanity."

"Why are you so insufferable?", you muttered.

He cleared his throat. Oh, no. What had you done?

"Well, I won't lie and say I haven't got that one before.", he parroted you from earlier in a voice that was such a poor attempt at mimickery you almost got offended. "But I just think it's me being incredibly dedicated to the assignment I was given, which is making sure you stay here— god, that was terrible, how did you listen to that with a straight face?"

"Who said I was listening? I spaced out after "assignment", man."

He laughed until the silence prompted him to stop.

But he fought it.

"You should wear the District Four outfit more often, though.", he mumbled, trying his best not to blurt out every thought in his head if only to sort his mind out and quiet it down.

"Yeah? Why?"

"It's perfect on you. Like you were made for it. Or something."

"You mean, it was made for me."

"No, not necessarily.", he informed matter-of-factly, allowing himself a moment to look at your side profile in the night. That looked like it was made for him. "It's not always things being made for people."

"No?"

He shook his head, moving so he was hovering above you. "But you know what it always is?"

"Mm?"

"People being made for people."

It didn't surprise you, really, that line. Seemed on-brand.

He gently guided you up so that he could be eye-level with you. "You're my piece of District Four. You and...", he murmured, gently pulling out the photos from his pocket. "...and this."

You nodded.

"You're okay with that?"

"The blinds are closed, Finnick. I promise."

That's what prompted the kiss. It shut you up for a good long while, and it really calmed him down, too. He grinned, forehead on yours, before a tiny gasp left him. "Almost forgot. Here."

A tiny circular locket glistened under the moonlight on your palm.

Your brows furrowed as you allowed him to pepper multiple kisses on your cheek. "Your locket? Isn't it your mother's?"

He nodded. "Look what I'm wearing."

You looked down. Your anchor-pendant.

You were both each other's piece of District Four, and now you had each other's piece of District Four.

This was the most poetic thing to happen to him since birth.

Take that, Snow.

Everything was coming up Finnick.

[etherealily]

Oh, god 😭😭

It's going to be very insensitive for me to say I'm glad, but as a writer, getting any sort of reaction is a win 🫶🏼

But I'm glad you enjoyed it, Miles, and I'll wipe your tears if you want 🗣️

ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟɪɴᴅꜱ // ꜰ.ᴏᴅᴀɪʀ

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

This was from my poll .

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Cuss words. Slightly longer.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Capitol-bred, out-of-touch, insensitive. You're everything he hates. But not quite. You're a crisis of his faith hate.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

Finnick hated this. He hated that he didn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night than move in to an apartment at the Capitol.

His best mates are at home, prepping the entire District two weeks before New Year's Eve, something he loved doing, and he was here, with a shiny old key to a dull new apartment. A penthouse, as if he cared.

As an extra-cruel addition, Snow had apparently installed venetian blinds that, when closed, looked like the ocean. Finnick felt like a chimp in an enclosure with trees painted on the wall, to make him "feel right at home". This is what you can't have, Finnick. What rightfully belongs to you. Jump around, little monkey.

Armed with the key and whatever possessions he could scrounge up that he didn't mind losing here at the Capitol (and a couple that he needed for sanity reasons that he would die if he lost, stored deep in his bag), he glared at the door. It was so fucking gaudy, he could break it down.

He put the key into the lock. The door swung open before he even turned it. It was unlocked?

Gingerly, he stepped in, dropping his bags onto the nearest chair and taking cautious step after cautious step into the room, half-expecting Snow to come out and give him one of those speeches that didn't do anything but show Finnick how absolutely out-of-touch he was.

Instead, he saw you.

"Uh, hello?"

You turned, slightly startled, from the venetian blinds that you'd been observing, before you smiled politely. "Hello, you must be Finnick."

Great! Just fucking great! Not only was he having to live in the fucking Capitol, now he was having a Capitol-bred roommate? Snow hadn't told him that!

"Yeah, uh, hi."

You gave him your name, reaching over to shake his hand. Huh. Where had he seen you before?

"Do I have to sleep on the couch, or...?", he laughed nervously, gesturing at the singular bed in the room.

You frowned. "I mean, y'know, if you want to? Is that how you sleep in the Districts?"

Beg fucking pardon? "What?"

"I'm sorry, did that offend? I wasn't given the proper greetings to use with you."

"Listen, if we're gonna be roommates, we're gonna need some ground rules—"

He didn't like your immediate sharp laugh at that. "Roommates? No, god, no. We're not roommates.", you informed, diligently.

"Then who the hell are you?"

Though evidently mildly taken aback by his use of the profanity, your cheery demeanor never faded. "Uh, no, I'm your mentor."

The world stopped, for a moment. The Games again? What?! This was not the fucking deal!

"Mags Flanagan was my mentor.", he replied, quietly and cautiously.

"Oh! Oh, yes, yes, sorry, yes, she was your mentor for the Hunger Games. I am your Capitol Fixture Mentor.", you announced, as if he was supposed to clap.

His what-fucking-who-now?

"One more time?"

"Your Capitol Fixture Mentor."

"English, please."

"You've been given this penthouse because President Snow thinks you're doing so well that you deserve to stay here."

Deserve. "Mhm?"

"So, you'll become a Fixture here at the Capitol. Capitol Fixture. And I'm here to help shape you right up."

He knew he must have looked like a jerk, his head tilted to the side as he eyed you up and down. You must have felt exposed, judged, even. And you'd be right. He was judging you hard. Who the hell did you think you were, unsettlingly-enthusiastic young thing — younger than him, actually — in your stupid Capitol outfit with your stupid Capitol makeup and your stupid Capitol dialect, telling him he needed to be changed`? Eurgh.

"Shape me up? Into what, exactly?", he challenged, his arms crossed.

"President Snow wants to put you in more advertisements, more promotions, y'know? More public appearances and whatnot. Make you someone of worth out here."

"I won the Games, little girl, I am of worth, and the deal was that if I won the Games, I could live out the rest of my life at home, in the Victor's Village, so you can t—" He cut himself off then. He couldn't threaten Snow back, he'd burn down his house, easy. "He told me I could go home.", he gritted out, his voice level and patient.

You frowned, the corners of your lips turning down. "Oh. I wasn't informed of such an arrangement. But I think you might like to know th—"

"I would like to know when I can go home and visit my family.", he spat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll... I'll go recheck if you want.", you mumbled.

"Yeah, I'd appreciate that.", he scoffed, watching you nod and leave.

What did Snow take him for? He'd already been having to try to live with the fact that the darling President had had him going on call after call to the Patrons, renting him out for God knows how much, but fuck, Finnick might actually drown himself if he had to go about promoting the Capitol, the Games.

Ugh, at least he could finally—

"They turned me right around.", you explained, defensively, as if he was about to maul you for being directed back in by Peacekeepers. Was it true, then? Did the Capitol really think people from the Districts were all animals?

Guilt prodded at him. You were a kid, what was he doing?

"Alright, it's okay. Just... relax. I'll unpack. Pretend like you already told me whatever you were instructed to t—", he sighed, in sudden realization. "You're mic'd."

"I am." Okay, if this was what you'd been trying to tell him all along, he was officially an absolute jerk.

Shaking his head, he yanked his bag from his chair. Apparently, it was unzipped, because he heard some stuff falling from it, but turning back would just be embarrassing. He had to save face.

In the mirror, he could see you frowning down at his clothes and bending over to pick them up.

"Leave them.", he ordered, not turning back.

"On the floor? Is that... is that how you keep them in the Districts? Because that's what the armoire is for."

"Alright, listen, kid, if you're gonna quote-unquote "mentor me", we're gonna have to set some ground fucking rules, alright?", he snapped, using air quotes before pointing at you as he swiveled around.

You nodded quickly. Yeesh. You were clearly going to make a habit of making him feel bad for his brashness, that's for sure.

"Number one : you don't talk about my District ever. Ever. I don't care what the context is, alright? Someone asks you to name all the Districts, you go "One, Two, Three, Five, Six, and so on." You get me? Not a word about my Four."

You nodded again.

"They don't teach you the word "Yes" here at the Capitol?"

"Yes."

"Good. Rule number two : you do not get to talk about the Games. You hear me?"

"Yes."

"Last rule. You're gonna...", he trailed off, reaching into his pocket for a pen of some sort. "You're gonna...", he struggled, trying to come up with a last rule to satisfy any listening ears. What is something Snow would expect him to fucking say?

As he was scrambling for an end to the sentence, he managed to find a pen at the edge of its life. Would have to do. He grabbed for your hand, scrawling on it : 'Give me a signal if you're mic'd.'

A finger at his lips.

"...Gonna not change you entirely?", you offered, nodding silently at the note on your palm.

Yeah, that'd be something Snow expected him to say. Okay, not bad.

He watched you open the blinds, the taunting ocean from Four disappearing, and sunlight shining through. That was your signal that you were mic'd.

"Yes.", he muttered, making sure whoever was listening in got that down. "Not change me entirely. I still wanna be Finnick, no matter what sort of training you give me."

"Alright. I, uh, accept your conditions."

"Rules."

"I'm President-appointed. These are conditions."

Alright, touché, he just got his ass handed to him in five words, he'll shut up.

"What were you supposed to do, again?"

"Well, today was just supposed to be about settling you in."

"Oh, you're the help, today?", he scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Thought I'd get an Avox. Fine. Whatever. Just sit there while I unpack."

And, to his immediate guilt, you did. Fuck.

After about five minutes of silent unpacking, he sighed. Least he could do is humour you. "What's tomorrow?"

"Saturday?"

He snorted. "No, I mean what's... what's the itinerary?", he asked, gratefully accepting the hanger you offered him, before hanging a shirt onto it and propping it onto the rod inside the armoire.

"Oh, speaking. I tell you possible questions you may be asked, and how to avoid ones you don't know."

You talked so enthusiastically about this, he suddenly understood that you knew everything but the most important things about him. You knew he was seventeen going on eighteen. You knew he had won the Games. You knew he was from District Four. You knew he was very cooperative with Snow, maybe even (in your eyes) one of his "favourites"`.

But you didn't know what he was being forced to do.

You didn't know why he was a "favourite".

The agonized, traumatized sadist in him wanted to burst your bubble. To tell you. But these are not things that one does.

"Do it today. Since we're not, y'know, doing anything."

You nodded. "Alright. One moment."

You pulled a tiny notebook out of your pocket and he hid a scoff. "Alright, you are not to talk about the Games. Unless you become a mentor, that is."

"But Mags is the mentor for Four."

"For now. Mags is nearly seventy.", you explained, clearly not knowing how close he was to screaming and screeching and storming into Snow's home and shooting him point-blank in the head for making him mentor kids younger than him to die, too.

"Right.", he muttered, blowing at some dust as he placed his collection of shells at his bedside.

"In the Rip, you must have a huge screen. They always do, right, in the Districts? To watch th— um, to watch things on."

The Rip was a special part of District Four, Finnick's favourite, because when the Peacekeepers weren't looking, there was an old man who had a camera and props, and would take photos of you for a fair price. And he'd manage to print them out somehow, as well, by pulling a lot of strings, and then you'd get a physical copy of it.

Only during holidays, though. Strictly.

Good, you didn't mention the Games.

"Yes, we have a screen."

"Good. So, you might have watched uh... interviews..."

"With the tributes. Yeah."

"Yes. You might have noticed that their audios may not always sync up with the video."

Yes, he had, actually. "Yes? That's a... it's called a glitch, right?"

The corners of your lips tugged to the side in a grimace, before you shook your head. "Usually, yeah, but not when it comes to the G— not in this case."

Okay, this, he did not know. "Elaborate."

"With pleasure.", you scoffed under your breath, and he decided that was a little too adorable to be taken as smart-mouthing, so he let it slide. "Sometimes, people say things that could be misconstrued as anti-Panem which, of course, as a tribute is never the intention, but it tends to happen."

He remembered his own Games, how happy he was to be there, how much he was looking forward to honouring the Capitol. And then he got there, and Mags had retained her sweetness, and suddenly, Finnick's goal was no longer to win the Games and honour the Capitol, it was to win the Games to honour his District and his family, his District Partner (if she didn't make it) and Mags.

"Tends to happen.", he mumbled, rubbing at his jawline.

"Yeah. And editing the feed, especially live feeds, is very risky, complicated and costly. You need to know how to speak, not edit. Alright? We cannot afford to keep editing what you say."

"And what is this line of questioning?", he scoffed.

"Do you miss District Four?"

"What kind of ques— yes, of course, it's my home, I fucking hate this place."

An imaginary gun, composed of two of your fingers was pointed at him, and you fired it. "Wrong."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I'll just not answer."

"And make yourself look more guilty of treason?"

"Alright, what am I supposed to say?"

"Be as truthful as you can. Until you can't."

"Solid advice. You should be on TV."

You cocked the imaginary gun again. "So, Finnick Odair. You're from District Four. Do you miss it at all?"

He gnawed on his upper lip for a moment, his mind racing on what would happen if he just jumped out the door, beat up the Peacekeepers, shot Snow, and ran back home to his District Four. But whoa. No. He needed to answer, or god forbid, this annoying little Capitol girl would imaginarily blow his fucking brains out.

"I... miss... my family...", he began, and was only encouraged by your tiny smile. Alright, clearly he was on the right track. "...And, yeah, sure, I grew up in District Four, so... that's my home—"

"No. Uh, you had it until you said 'home'. You can't make the District look better than the Capitol. If it was, wouldn't everyone just move there?"

"It is, though."

"For you. Because you're so comfortable there, because you grew up there. You can't suggest that it's better than the Capitol."

"How should I answer, then?"

"Ask me something."

"Why are you so insufferable?", he snorted, before trying to rack his brain for an actual possible question to ask you. To his surprise, though, you cleared your throat.

"Well, I won't lie and say I haven't got that one before. But I just think it's me being incredibly dedicated to the assignment I was given, especially one to mentor someone as incredible as you, who really doesn't need mentoring, considering your phenomenal performance in the Games."

It's like you had a fucking script or something, that was fantastic.

"Whoa.", he murmured, tilting his head at you as if you were about to grow four heads or something.

"So, Finnick Odair. What is your favourite thing about now being a Capitol Fixture?"

He took a deep breath, looking into your eyes — fuck, those eyes! — before beginning. "The food. 100% the food. Although I grew up on District Four grub and it'll always hold a special place in my heart, the food here is the reason I understand the phrase "chef's kiss", now, honestly.", he explained, with a little charming chuckle at the end.

"The interviewers won't clap for you, Finnick, but I will.", you encouraged, and for the first time ever, he got applause that he felt like he deserved.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"What the hell — should I have made "don't let yourself into my apartment" one of the rules?!", he yelled, sitting up as he heard you in distinct conversation elsewhere, through the ruckus of all the men walking past you, covering you entirely, actually, before going through his personal belongings and either replacing them with shinier, more Capitol-y bullcrap, or just tossing it down onto the floor. Like his childhood wasn't pretty enough.

At least the blinds were closed.

The men ignored him, and he did start at them, but he heard your voice from somewhere within the chaos. "You make a fuss, it's all the more reason for them to throw things away, because it makes you liability."

What were all these new rules he wasn't informed of but expected to know?!

Too many people, so he couldn't see you, but he could hear you over the shuffle of clothes and the clangs of trinkets being thrown haphazardly. "Hi, sir, this was a gift I got for my Fixture."

The burly man raised a brow, picking up the locket. His mother's. It must have fallen out of his bag, which is why you knew what it was. "You got a man a locket?", he asked, skepticism blooming in his voice.

"I didn't know that a locket was a particularly feminine thing. I spent a majority of my childhood at sea, you'll have to excuse me.", you replied, smiling and looking down.

"So you're, like... absolutely clueless?"

"Pretty much.", you giggled. "Embarrassing, huh?"

He couldn't see how you were doing it, but as much as he could eavesdrop, you used a different tactic for salvaging each item. "It would really be a cute token, I think, a seashell-collection? It's part of who he is, right?", or "It makes him look multi-faceted, that drawing. He isn't just a Victor, he's an artist. He's deep."

It took a while for them to leave. He'd been fiddling with the annoying fucking blinds again, watching the picture appear and disappear (why was that the only thing they left untouched?) before you cleared your throat.

"Finally. Here, I managed to save your locket, your shells, this little drawing, the poem, and the message-in-a-bottle with sand in it."

He turned. He almost wished he hadn't.

Finnick's heart crawled up to his throat.

Finnick's heart stopped in his throat, actually. Butterflies were past tense for him, he was dealing with unnaturally sized dragonflies, that poked their stick-like bodies at every square inch of his stomach.

You were breathtaking.

"What, uh...", he laughed nervously for a moment, rubbing the back of his head. "What are you wearing?"

"I was told I had to."

"Why?", he asked, immediately, a heat creeping up the back of his neck. You looked way too perfect. You were wearing the classic District Four dress he'd seen girls wear, growing up, your hair put up in the same way, and clearly you'd been instructed to stand the same way, somehow, too. But the rest of your body language? You were undeniably uncomfortable in this. Not because of the simplicity, but maybe the texture. Your skin was too used to soft Capitol silks for this.

"I was told it'd make you feel more comfortable, and it would also help model your clothes for the press—"

"God, how "good" do you think our President is?!", he snapped.

"What?"

"It's not to make me more "comfortable", it's to let me know I'll never have a fucking tangible piece of District Four here with me! You being here, looking like... well, that, serves the same purpose as those fucking blinds, with the ocean on them! It's not to make me feel more at home, he needs me to know this isn't my home!"

"You can keep these clothes, and I salvaged your keepsakes, plus you can alw—"

"Always what? Visit District Four? Yeah, for, like, a week, with surveillance and cameras and posing. And the clothes?", he scoffed, flicking at the collar. "You're wildly uncomfortable in them! You won't like to wear them all the time so yes, I have no tangible piece of District Four here with me, and thank you for that, thank you and President Snow!", he spat, gesturing wildly at the blinds.

The silence roared in his ears.

You nodded, subtly. "I am uncomfortable in this, but I could wear it for longer, and we could get inspiration for your outfits from this."

He sighed. You just didn't get it. He rubbed at the side of his cheek in exasperation, "I won't expect you to, and he knows that. Because that would be changing who I was. That would be selfish. That would be him."

"I'm sorry you don't have District Four with you."

"You can take it all off, now. Change.", he cut you off, waving before he turned to give you privacy.

"I don't want to."

"Yes, you do. Two people in discomfort in one room is way too Capitol for me."

You smiled. "Alright. The bag doesn't have other clothes in it, though."

"It's fine, borrow some of the crap the Capitol put into my armoire."

"Yeah?"

"Go ahead, I won't miss it."

"Thank you, Finnick Odair."

"Finnick. Just call me Finnick."

"Thank you, Finnick."

He fiddled with the cords of the blinds again, watching the blue of the faux-ocean — the fauxcean — flicker as he did.

"Um, I'm done."

Alright, this was getting ridiculous. His excuse for the previous emergence of the dragonflies was that you were wearing District Four garb, and he could pretend that you reminded him of some crush of his youth. But now? You were wearing Capitol stuff, oddly patterned and bright, and you still looked radiant.

"Bit big, huh?"

"Yeah." You shook your arms to show the flap of excess cloth.

"But better?"

You nodded. "Yeah, sorry."

"Hey, your comfort zone's my discomfort zone and vice-versa. Don't sweat it.", he assured, taking the Four garments from you and refusing to let you fold it. "We fold it a bit differently. Mind?"

"No, not at all."

"You can take that off, too, don't worry about it."

"My clothes? Again?", you asked, tilting your head and frowning.

He snorted, pointing at a tiny necklace on you, the only thing about your remaining outfit that was simple. Well, besides your hair. And he was glad you never wore your hair like the rest of the Capitol people, because hair was the second thing he noticed in someone. After their eyes.

Whenever he met someone new, he always pictured how the ocean breeze would treat them. If it was nice to their hair, he'd be nice to them. If the ocean hated them, well, Finnick knew to stay away.

Alright. He was bumming himself out. What ocean breeze, Finnick? You're stuck here for an indefinite amount of time. Get it together.

"What about that?"

Instinctively, you clutched at it, furrowing your brows. "What about it?"

"It's not yours."

"Sure is!"

"Right. And this penthouse is my birthright."

"Listen, I have been nothing but nice to you, but I do not appreciate being called a liar!"

He slid his fingernail under the anchor-pendant, lifting it up to examine it. "That is only made in the districts. I should know, my neighbour was a master welder who made things exactly like this."

"My great-grandmother agreed to become a Capitol Fixture just like you after having a child with a Harrington! And she passed this down! So there!"

Had he just class-shamed a girl he didn't know? God, Snow was rubbing off on him.

"You're District?"

"No.", you muttered. "Part. My family is."

"Which one?", he urged.

A pause. "Four."

Ah, he thought so! He could see the resemblance to some of his neighbours, honestly. "That's why you were assigned to me. To taunt me that the only connection I have to Four is contaminated by Capitol."

"Contaminated? You think I'm contaminated?"

"No, you—", he sighed. Okay, yeah, that's what it sounded like. "You're just... you're not pure District. You have Capitol in you. As far as I know, your grandmother didn't get married, right? Because that would've ruined the Harringtons. So... your mother was a Capitol mix?"

"And that makes us tainted?"

"No, no, I just mean—"

"Listen, you're not better than me because I have Capitol in me, alright?"

"Hey, that's not what I said. I'm not better. I know that.", he replied, slowly, clearly and warmly. "I just said... Snow knows I'm itching for District Four. I miss my home, Y/N, alright? And you... you're perfect, but you're supposed to be a reflection of what I'm going to become in a couple years' time. More Capitol than District. You understand?"

"I don't think you understand just how much President Snow thinks about you. You think he's out here to make your life worse, but he had these special-ordered from your District, and even put up signs all over to ask for a stylist from your District."

He was this close to actually jumping out the window. "He did not put up any signs. And even if he did, no one will come, alright? They think I'm a sell-out." His voice broke out of sheer exhaustion at the last word, and he felt like he was about to collapse.

Thankfully, you didn't try to double-down on your notion that Snow was Finnick's guardian angel, and instead, played around with your hair. At least that's what it looked like, to him, but no, apparently you'd reached back to unclasp the necklace.

"Here. Tangible piece of District Four."

"Oh, come on, that's on purpose, you're just trying to be all 'I'm-the-bigger-person', I'm so kind even though you're a prick, boo-hoo-me, and it's fucking manipulative.", he spat, shoving your hand back towards you.

"Or maybe I really just am a good person, Odair!", you scoffed, slamming the tiny anchor-chain down onto the table beside him. "Otherwise, why would I have salvaged your trinkets?!"

"Go ahead! Throw something that comes from the Districts away! We're only disposable to you assholes, right? Though you're part District!", he called, as you tried storming away. "And WHY? Conveniently, no one's telling me why my shit's getting thrown to the floor!", he bellowed, his hands out wide in exaggerated questioning.

"There's a Finnick Odair Penthouse Apartment episode this week on Panem Properties by Link Domus!", you yelled back, slamming the door behind you as you were, once again, pushed back in by the Peacekeepers.

"What?!" Oh, he fucking hated that show with everything in his heart! He used to make fun of it with his family, and now he was going to be on it?!

You nodded. "There'll be a camera crew coming in this weekend, and we really can't have it looking shabby. It should increase sales of a lot of products."

Products he had never and will never use. Good to know.

"So, there's a deadline, now? You have to make me the ideal Capitol Fixture by the end of the week?"

"Welcome to my discomfort zone.", you scoffed.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"I'm surprised you're normal about this.", he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but you were so close together, it made sense you'd hear him. "My escort during the Games hated coming to the District, even though we're one of the cleanest ones."

"I need you calm. New Years is coming up, and that means parties and interviews and events.", you responded, sternly, clearly avoiding his gaze.

"Hey." A nudge to your shoulder. "Seriously. Thanks. Apparently, people think I'm some sort of ladies' man. Which I'm not, I'm seventeen, but, y'know, being able to breathe here in Four is gonna do wonders."

"Oh. So I was right about my hunch. They fabricated it to make you juicier."

"'Juicier'.", he scoffed. "Where did that stupid expression even come from?"

"I guess when fruits are juicier, they're more satisfying to sink your teeth into.", you suggested, shrugging as if you hadn't just hit the nail on the head. "

Sink your teeth into. How apt.

He didn't like how nervously you looked out the window, as if District Four residents would attack you for not acknowledging your roots. And then, he realized you only probably thought that because of him, and how he had actually attacked you for it.

Fuck. Everything was coming up Snow, wasn't it?

"The Rip has this really cool spot.", he whispered under his breath. "It's all very hush-hush, but there's this man, Hector, who takes amazing photos."

"Photos? Cameras? Aren't they bann—"

"Yes, but he's a friend. Shh. We'll get some taken."

"I don't want to take a photo with you."

"You will once you see Hector's booth."

~~~~

"So, you're saying you know everything about District Four, the entire topography, but this is your first time here?", inquired Hector, in sheer fascination, with his wizened smile and gravelly voice.

"Well, yes, I'm part-Harrington, I was given the maps, and when I was bored, I'd study them."

"You seem smart."

"I do?"

"Yes. Here."

You took the prop from him, a headpiece that had a pink brain springing up from it, that wobbled when your head moved. You let out a sharp laugh, looking at yourself in the mirror. "I look ridiculous."

"-Ly cool. Come on.", instructed Finnick.

"The usual, Finnick?"

He nodded, and Hector presented him with a headpiece just like yours, although this had a slightly horrifying anatomically correct heart on it, clearly cut out from some sort of textbook, like yours.

And then there you were, squished into a photo booth nearly on Finnick Odair's lap.

"You know how this works, Finnick, yeah? Explain it to your girl, because my head is killing me.", grumbled Hector, and Finnick rolled his eyes, punching his chest.

"When is it not, with all that alcohol you drink, huh?", teased Finnick, before drawing the curtain. "Alright, so we're supposed to pose."

"Oh, I had no idea.", you gasped, sardonically.

"We're so cool, huh? Head and heart? How amazing is that?", he exclaimed, before gently directing your jaw to face the camera. "That's one. Three more. Wow me with your ability to not be annoying."

You scoffed. "You're one to fucking talk!", you hissed, at the same moment that he gasped at your use of the cuss word.

The photo clicked.

"Oh, so she does swear! Beautiful. Two more, honey, and then we're going to the beach."

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

His fingers traced the sand, aimless curves through it. "So, what do you think of District Four?", he asked, turning to you and squinting one eye to cover the glare from the sun.

"It's wonderful."

"Would you live here?"

"I wouldn't have minded it."

"So, you do understand why I miss it."

You thumbed over the copy of the photobooth pictures, shrugging. "Yeah, but we can't do anything about it. You agreed."

"I didn't agree to jackshit."

The breeze swallowed up his words, quiet as they were, but the anger festered.

He grunted as he stood up to go closer to the water, taking off that stupid fucking Capitol shirt and letting it flee with the wind. At least when he got to the water, you wouldn't be able to tell if it was his tears or the ocean.

"Whoa, wait, what do you mean b—"

But he was off before you could finish. Maybe he wanted you to race after him. Maybe he wanted you to turn him around so that he could hug you to avoid looking at your face. You'll never know. Perhaps he meant it that way. But holding Finnick Odair humanized him. And, to him, humanized you.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"Sticks."

"Stellar."

"Reeds."

"Stars."

"Seashells."

"Stop with the 's's!", you giggled, swatting at his shoulder.

He gripped your nose between two of his fingers, pinching it. "I want to spend New Years here."

"We can't, Finnick, you know we can't, I'll get in trouble, you'll get in trou—"

"We have to. We have to. There's so much you, oh my god, you'd love the knot-tying, no, no, we have cupcake-wars, which is like, self-explanato— we quite literally have to stay, for my sanity."

"Why are you so insufferable?", you muttered.

He cleared his throat. Oh, no. What had you done?

"Well, I won't lie and say I haven't got that one before.", he parroted you from earlier in a voice that was such a poor attempt at mimickery you almost got offended. "But I just think it's me being incredibly dedicated to the assignment I was given, which is making sure you stay here— god, that was terrible, how did you listen to that with a straight face?"

"Who said I was listening? I spaced out after "assignment", man."

He laughed until the silence prompted him to stop.

But he fought it.

"You should wear the District Four outfit more often, though.", he mumbled, trying his best not to blurt out every thought in his head if only to sort his mind out and quiet it down.

"Yeah? Why?"

"It's perfect on you. Like you were made for it. Or something."

"You mean, it was made for me."

"No, not necessarily.", he informed matter-of-factly, allowing himself a moment to look at your side profile in the night. That looked like it was made for him. "It's not always things being made for people."

"No?"

He shook his head, moving so he was hovering above you. "But you know what it always is?"

"Mm?"

"People being made for people."

It didn't surprise you, really, that line. Seemed on-brand.

He gently guided you up so that he could be eye-level with you. "You're my piece of District Four. You and...", he murmured, gently pulling out the photos from his pocket. "...and this."

You nodded.

"You're okay with that?"

"The blinds are closed, Finnick. I promise."

That's what prompted the kiss. It shut you up for a good long while, and it really calmed him down, too. He grinned, forehead on yours, before a tiny gasp left him. "Almost forgot. Here."

A tiny circular locket glistened under the moonlight on your palm.

Your brows furrowed as you allowed him to pepper multiple kisses on your cheek. "Your locket? Isn't it your mother's?"

He nodded. "Look what I'm wearing."

You looked down. Your anchor-pendant.

You were both each other's piece of District Four, and now you had each other's piece of District Four.

This was the most poetic thing to happen to him since birth.

Take that, Snow.

Everything was coming up Finnick.

[etherealily]

Hey girlie

How would Tom react if his girlfriend who was usually in a good mood was having an off day and just seemed pissy and upset about everything

My head first went to : he'd throw money at her and everything, but then I actually thought about it.

And I don't think he'd last a moment being on the other side of a meltdown. Like, usually, people just submit to his every whim and that calms him down but I really doubt he could do that with his girl (ego much?)

He doesn't notice until it directly affects him. When his girl shrugs him off when he begins to kiss her shoulder, specifically, is when he sort of begins to get it.

But... he's Tom Ryder. Certified idiot.

So he basically just starts being pissy back.

Slams doors, scoffs when she's in the room, that sort of thing. But he's bored and horny and in-between films, and it's annoying to him.

"Yo. Get up, we're going out. I have a dress out for you on the bed."

"I don't want to go out."

He scoffs. "Tough."

But he doesn't take her to a restaurant or anything, he puts her in a car, and chooses to drive instead of having a driver. "You gonna talk?"

"No."

"Alright, then.", he shrugs, and he continues to drive to absolutely nowhere.

It takes a couple more "You gonna talk now"'s until he wears his girl down and by then, they're both in looser spirits.

There's a tweet by @tomryderofficial later that night with a very specific wording to target the person / situation that made his girl angry, and his Instagram "accidentally" leaks a picture of them making out in the car.

[etherealily]

Alright, you have voted Finnick, so here it is!

Hope you enjoy.

The Blinds.

[etherealily]

ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

(I promise I will fix the images I made them at 3 am 😭)

For @g0lden-sky. I love you, and I hope this is what you meant in this ask <3. If it sucks, tell me.

Desc. : You really can't just stop knowing someone.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Well, fuck."

He's a strong man, yes, but it's been years.

He's a strong man, yes, but every fibre of his being was angling for a glimpse at you, just one.

Lemon nudged his elbow as if he didn't have fucking eyes. "Wonder what she goes by, now."

"Probably not Lemon.", he scoffed back. "She's probably out of the fucking business, mate, alright? We'll just slip past."

Were you summat boring, a desk job? Or were you a wife? Oh, god, what if he looked down, past the legs of passers-by and there was a ring on your finger, or a child clinging to you?

And so, he looked. He allowed himself a moment, and he scanned you. No child, no ring, no carpal tunnel. You were most likely still in the business. Alright, that's good, because that meant you were a rival, and resentment was an emotion he could work with.

Hate, he could work with. Disdain? Please. Cake-walk.

But whatever this was? The yearn for lost time? He struggled a bit. Wasn't in his training, was it? Thankfully, he walked away unscathed by your presence, one that's usually daggering to him.

Fucking phew. Great. Who cares? He could move on, finish the fucking job and then— "Oi!" Fuck, Lemon.

Weeding through the crowd, practically running, you slipped away from him once more, and he shared a look with his brother.

Tangerine's fists clenched and relaxed. He counted down from ten. He took deep breaths. He licked his lips. He tried not to have a fucking aneurysm.

"What're the chances I've become really fucking handsome now, and she was turned on to the point of fleeing?", asked Lemon, nudging him once again before they followed after you.

When they finally got to you — you did not make it easy — they found themselves staring down the barrel of a gun each, trapped against an abandoned freight elevator. Their hands shot up in surrender — not an easy thing to achieve, so kudos. It's been ages since they'd done that.

"You're not our target."

"Heard that one before."

Tangerine's hand nearly accidentally dropped (dangerous), with how hearing your voice after more than a decade had startlingly affected him. Pathetic, really. But he recovered, clearing his throat. "Well, unless you're an eighty year old bloke called fuckin' Maurice, you're not our target."

Your eyes narrowed — the same eyes he's not sure he's ever quite forgotten — before the guns lowered cautiously, steadily. "You need to off Maurice?"

"He's your target, too?"

Licking your lips, you shook your head, huffing. "Not exactly. 'M just supposed to break into his hotel room, into his safe, and get whatever's in there. AMN."

Any Means Necessary.

Lemon clapped his hands together, startling you and causing you to instinctively raise the gun at him once more. "Whoa. I— I was just about to say that this works out quite nicely, yeah?"

You and Tangerine scoffed at the same time. "How?"

"You'll need him..." — Lemon clicked his tongue and ran a thumb across his throat — "... out of the way. And we're being paid to do that, yeah? Makes sense to work together."

"No, fuck off, mate, not a chance in hell. We do our thing, she does hers.", grumbled Tangerine, yanking at Lemon's elbow. "C'mon."

"Do you really not trust us?", asked Lemon, gently, as though he were calming a bear and not a paranoid assassin with two guns.

Your glare softened, and you shrugged, ardently avoiding eye contact. "Would you?"

"Fair point. But we're not interferin' with each other, though, yeah? Just aidin'. C'mon."

Why you went was a mystery to all parties involved.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

He'd never really noticed how bloody blue his eyes are. Piercing. It's actually offending him, right now. Ugh. But what other choice did he have but to stay in the bathroom and glare at his own reflection after about ten ice cold splashes (and one warm one that he did not like) over his face while you and Lemon guardedly debriefed each other in a hotel room across the floor from the target?

Well. Yeah, he could be out there, where the conversations are being had, but no. He'd have to look at you again.

To be fair, it was his fault, he'd been nothing short of a prick to you the whole way to the hotel, with comments and scoffs at every fucking thing you said, so much so that Lemon had tried to convince you he was just severely sleep-deprived, and all but ordered him to go wash his face or summat.

And so, here he was.

His fingers slid over his jaw and flicked any residual droplets off his face before he sighed, flipping himself off in the unnecessarily swanky mirror. "Bell-end. Bell-end. Knob.", he gritted out, shaking his head.

When had he turned into such a dickhead?

He took another deep breath. Counted down from ten again. Twisting the doorknob, he opened the door.

And what lovelier sight to be met with than the two of you kneeling on opposite ends of the table, glaring over the guns you'd placed there (for a show of good faith) like some sort of hostile, antagonistic coffee date?

"Right, what's all this, then?"

Grunting as he stood, and then laughing for god-knows-what-reason, Lemon thumbed at the door. "I'm doin' recon. Makin' sure he hasn't been tipped off."

"I can do it."

Lemon patted his chest, shouldering past him. "Nah, mate. Dibs."

"Lemon—"

"My codename, by the way.", informed Lemon, grinning back at you with a tiny bow.

"—I will shoot you in the fuckin' mouth."

"Sorry, mate. Dibs is sacred. And so's childhood.", he added, lowering his tone.

He hated this.

He hated when his brother played shrink.

He hated when he started with his stupid Thomas the Tank Engine analogies.

But there was nothing on God's green earth that he hated more than the fact that he couldn't hold his liquor for shit, because he'd lost the drinking game with Lemon.

Which is why he was here in front of you, after twelve years, with the codename Tange-fucking-rine.

Shoot him now.

"I'm Tangerine, if you were wonderin'.", he mumbled, clearing his throat. "What's your codename?" He'd say anything to make sure fucking "Tangerine" wasn't the last thing to ring through the room like a tuning fork.

"Don't have one. I dunno. This time, didn't feel like it."

You looked down, then. What was that about?

"That's unprofessional."

You snorted. "So's collaboration.", you said, gesturing between the two of you, and then at the gun-laden table you were still kneeling in front of.

"Yeah, but collaboration is just dangerous, not stupid-dangerous, like 'no codenames' is."

"With you two, yeah, it is stupid.", you mumbled, searching through the collection of firearms for yours.

"That's why you're sticking to petty theft like a fuckin' Oliver Twist character, and we're quite literally deemed "the best" in the business."

"I'm sorry, Citrus.", you scoffed, standing. "What the fuck do you think my last job was?"

"Pickin' locks?"

"I had to do three cleanups back-to-back, because no one does it like me. A mil' each, easy."

He rolled his eyes. What a fuckin' braggart.

"Geezer's back from the buffet!"

Brilliant.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"No, no, we've got all the time in the world, we just have a bloody decaying body under our feet, so by all means, take your time."

"Tangerine, shut up, let her do her thing."

"We shoulda just left when we had the chance, instead we're here riskin' our arses because she can't crack into a bloody safe!"

"I'm done, alright?", you hissed, hands covering your eyes as the safe opened, the lights glinting off the contents and practically blinding you.

"Straight out a Tarantino film, innit?", remarked Lemon, whistling lowly, the gold of the safe reflecting in his eyes.

Saluting the body, you slung the backpack you'd stuffed everything into over your shoulder, standing. "Pay my respects to Mr. Maurice for me."

He had to get a fucking grip, honestly. He was barely keeping from screaming at you to stay.

But, no. You were absolute chaos for him, and he was chaos for you. It's best you never saw each other again.

"What was that about?", he murmured, after you left.

"Mm?"

"That one. Absolute piece of work, yeah?", he said, thumbing behind him, at the door you've just walked out of. "Seemed off, though.", he added, offhandedly.

"What, after fifteen years? Yeah, I s'pose she's off. She's different, more like."

"Twelve, and she looks tired."

"And what do I look like, mate? Been walkin' around the fucking floor like a fuckin' guard dog makin' sure this old coot finished his plate at the buffet and gave us enough time to set up ; I'm exhausted. And we've got the flight to bloody Bolivia tonight.", Lemon grumbled, shaking his head.

He couldn't blame Lemon, really. Sure, nostalgia was a thing, but it was one that, for normal people like you and Lemon, would pass in the blink of an eye. But when had Tangerine ever been fucking normal?

"Bit of a legend, was he?", remarked Lemon, flicking at the Rolex on Maurice's wrist. "They don't even make these anymore."

"If you grave-rob, I will fuckin' riot.", he muttered, distractedly.

"Mr. Fancy Pants over here has Marlboros and shite."

Marlboros! Nicotine! Oh, yes! Oh, fuck. Alright. Nicotine.

He hasn't had a cigarette in thirty-six hours, and on top of that, he saw you ; of course he'd be all worked up. No wonder. Alright. He can rest easy now.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

Fresh off seventeen kills and a migraine, Tangerine really did not have time for this absolute bull. Honestly. In the span of, say, two bloody weeks, you'd shown up twice, and he didn't like that.

He used to know you better than the back of his hand, and now?

Both of your hands are painted with unfamiliar scars.

"You gonna go say 'hi'?"

"What, with this thing hangin' off my arm?", he scoffed, gesturing at The Son of the fucking White Death. "I'd rather not parade 'im about, all unconscious-like."

"Mate."

He was still glaring at you, and it took a couple thumps to his shoulder to make him turn. "What?"

"Don't be a James."

"Here we fuckin' go.", mumbled Tangerine, shaking his head. "I swear, this bloke wakes up, you'll find his ears bleedin', 'cause you've been on and on about bloody Thomas The Tank Engine the entire fuckin' journey to Tokyo."

"Listen, James fucked up so much because of one thing. What was it?", asked Lemon, pointing his finger at him, with his other hand on his shoulder like a mentor.

"Bein' low-quality animation?"

"Pride. Pride. He was so bloody proud of his bloody red paint job that he—", he cut himself off, though, rubbing at his nape. "Alright, if there really is somethin' off with her, this is your chance to gloat that you're better at readin' people than me."

Huh.

See, that incentivised him more than being compared to some annoying red, animated train.

~~

"We must stop meetin' like this."

Your head swivelled around, and he's sure he could sort of see the faintest, dimmest hint of the spark he'd seen across from him on the see-saw all those years back...? He couldn't be entirely sure.

You smiled, which was a good sign, but the spark wasn't fully there, and he hated it. You moving to the window seat so he could sit by you, stretching? Proof you weren't a total cunt now that you're all grown up.

"You goin' to Tokyo, then?"

"No, connecting flight to Seoul and then I'm off. The stop before Tokyo.", you added, when he looked at you as if you'd explained it all in Greek.

He nodded, flicking at the headphones on the seat pocket once he wrangled them out of it. "Right."

"You're going to Tokyo?"

"Yeah. Been dragging this poor boy all the way from Bolivia to now bloody São Paulo, and then another connecting flight— god, it's exhausting. His old man's so rich, shouldn't he be gettin' a private jet or summat?", he sighed, his hand rubbing over his eyes in sheer fatigue.

"Wouldn't that be the first place his enemies look, though?"

"How about you stop with the logic, yeah? 'S annoying."

The two of you laughed for a bit, and the nostalgia shot him in the mouth. Didn't seem to for you, though, you were avoiding eye contact like you'd been caught robbing Maurice.

He tried his best to stay patient as you looked out the window, tried to focus on getting his arm off the armrest because the aisles were clogged up with passengers brushing past. He moved to the middle seat. One seat closer to you.

More silence. Why did he let Lemon talk him into this?

He didn't know what to say, but he knew what he wouldn't say. Summat dumb like "you're lookin' well", or "how you been?", or — god forbid — "long time, no see".

"So. What you been doin' all this time?"

God. So much for not being dumb.

A shrug. You were infuriating.

"Me? Lemon and I, we have quite a bit of fun, actually.", he continued. "Made a name for ourselves and that. What about you? You been doin' Burke, I s'pose?"

"Not "doing" Burke, but yeah, he's still my handler.", you chuckled, biting the inside of your cheek. "But just been doin' jobs, y'know? Just... whatever."

"Whatever?", he pushed, furrowing his brows. "Thought you had fun on the job. You alright?"

"'M fine."

Tangerine nodded, fiddling with the headphones again.

"If it was what I said in Dubai, I was just bein' a bastard, tryna get under your skin, and, to be fair, I was cranky 'cause I got no sleep.", he muttered.

"Well then, maybe go to sleep, then. 'S a long flight."

In his own seat, you meant. He could take a hint.

"Wow. Twelve years, and you still don't wanna look back.", he grumbled, standing up to leave.

But he couldn't. Not when you grabbed his wrist.

"What?"

Alright, mate, c'mon, now's your time to shine. Wow her.

"At me. You don't wanna look back at me, maybe see that you're bein' a bit of a bitch."

Alright, not the best start, callin' her a bitch, but it's alright, it's alright, we can recover.

"A bitch? For not wanting t—"

A quick flick of his wrist and suddenly, it was him grabbing yours. "Come with me, yeah?"

He was genuinely lucky you listened.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Alright, now that there's no witnesses if one of us bloody kills the other, can you tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"

"Listen, mate, we don't know each other anymore. I'm not about to have some makeshift therapy session in an airplane bathroom because we pinky-promised or summat when we were six!", you whisper-yelled, and all the air was knocked out of him.

The spark. It blazed. It was you —fucking finally — sitting in front of him.

"We actually crossed our hearts, but I won't take that personally.", he muttered, solemnly.

A moment, and he couldn't help the smile (though he was a worthy competitor against it) when you started snickering.

"Fuck, we were corny."

"Yeah.", he agreed, nodding. "But we were also best mates."

"Right."

"Pisses me off, though."

"What?"

"The fact that anytime I hear 'best mate', I'm immediately thinking of — and looking around for — you."

"I thought that was Lemon out there."

"No, he's my brother. Brothers are different, he means so much to me that we have no choice but to get on with each other. You, though.", he huffed.

"Me, though?"

He shook his head, flicking your forehead. "You, though.", he muttered, somehow managing to move closer and hold your jaw with one hand. "You're something else. I have a choice, and I'm still tryin' to get on with you. So get on with it. Spit it out."

"I have a choice, and I don't want to."

Ugh! Could you not back-talk him for once in your fucking life?! Why did he even try? What was even the fucking point?

You'd leave at Seoul, and if you were so inclined, you'd share a handshake or two, he and Lemon would be off with the bloke in Tokyo, and then you'd all be on your merry ways.

As it should be.

But then, a vision. A flash, and suddenly, he was seven years old again, grinning at you after the recruiters came and went.

"We're gettin' adopted."

"We're gettin' recruited.", he reminded. "You did so well."

"I choked, is what I did."

If he thought you seemed vulnerable now, he'd have melted for seven-year-old you.

"No, no, trust me, none of the other girls assembled that gun as fast as you." "You sure?" "I was watching."

He figured that maybe a similar segue may be able to fill in the silence. Even if you didn't respond immediately, at least you'd be stabbed with unsettling nostalgia that got you to open up.

"You were very quick with the gun. Back in Dubai."

Furrowing your brows, you tore your gaze away from the bathroom door and fixed it back up at him. "...Thank you?"

"'S not a compliment. 'S an observation."

"Observations can be compliments."

"Yeah, but not this one.", he shot back. A pause. "You bein' hunted?"

"No." No. Well, that's good. He didn't need to become a target, too.

"I was quick with the gun because it's a high-profile job. 'M not bein' hunted."

He let out a low whistle, nodding as he looked past you for a moment. "Just tryin' to make conversation.", he muttered, running his hands over his face, and then hair, and then suit, and finally deciding on firmly perching them onto the edge of the sink.

"Maybe don't."

When has he ever listened to you?

"Hey. If you could look at me, that'd be fuckin' fantastic. Yeah, there you go. Stop bein' all secretive and fuckin' tell me why you look like you're about to jump off this fuckin' plane."

It's like he'd never changed. Yeah, sure, he's taller, fitter, and the muscles he'd claimed to have when he was thirteen had seemed to take the hint and actually show up, but he's still the annoying little twat that would mock you for having feelings while simultaneously moving hell and back (to the extent of his abilities) to solve your problems for you.

So, for your best mate, you sighed.

"I'm tired, alright?! I feel like shit, and I dunno why! Alright? Probably something in the air."

Something in the air. God, you were getting on his fucking nerves.

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring for a moment, before nodding, reaching into his pocket. "You had any cigs lately?"

What?

"No."

"See, that's a problem, that.", he explained, pointing a ringed finger at you as if he'd just deigned you with the knowledge of the century, and you were supposed to give him your firstborn as thanks. "Nicotine solves half of all that."

The flame flickered in front of his eyes momentarily before he flicked the lighter off, handing the lit cig to you.

"Are you mockin' me?"

Jesus fuck, I'm caring, you absolute twat.

He moved closer still. Gripped your jaw even harder. Used said grip to shake your jaw after each word he said, to prove his point.

"All you are is your job. Your work. You don't think you're even a person anymore, and you're tired of that."

It was adorable, you glaring at him while he shook your jaw.

"Let me go."

"You're not sure who you are, and it scares you, because everyone else seems to."

You hissed his name, his real name, and he nearly dropped his hand from your jaw. The last person to ever utter his name had also been the first person to do so, twelve years later? That's some chaotic shite right there.

"You're terrified that you don't matter. And you're terrified that whatever you wanna do, whatever you wanna make of your life, you'll never fuckin' get it, because you've got Burke and your job on your fuckin' arse all the time. Yeah?"

He had to chill out about Burke. You'd catch on.

Your jaw clenched under his fingers, and the corner of his lip turned up just a tad. "Blink twice if I'm right.", he teased, his forehead nearly on yours.

"Fuck off."

He simpered at the force of your shove. Still no match for his assholic streak, his impishness, the absolute cheek and audacity imbibed in his blood.

"Ah, so I'm right on the fuckin' money, then.", he grinned, rubbing your bottom lip between his fingers, forming a pout. "I'll fuck right off after you admit it."

When you stayed silent, he offered you the cigarette once more.

"I don't smoke. Put that out. 'S not allowed, anyway."

"If it weren't allowed, they wouldn't have this thing over here, now would they?", he asked, tapping at the ashtray on the wall.

And then... look, whatever. He's an idiot. We've established this. He's an idiot, and he's a bit of an arsehole, let's be honest.

He didn't know why he did it, in all honesty. Bathroom's already really fucking cramped, so this was really not the best thing for him to be doin', unless he wanted to induce fucking claustrophobia.

Snogging an already pissed-off assassin in an airplane bathroom was right up there with the dumbest things he'd ever done in his life. For instance, two years ago, having to crash a child's birthday party because of mistaken identity.

"Oi, what—"

What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?!

"Mm? Sorry, couldn't hear you over this snog, sorry? What?", he murmured against your lips. What a bastard!

"What's wrong with y—"

"I was right on the money, wasn't I? As I said, I'll fuck right off if you just admit it."

"FINE!"

"Yeah?"

"Fine! Yeah, sure, fuck off. You might be right."

"Wanna know how I know?"

"Some other member of the Fruit Bowl told you? Grapefruit or Lime, or summat?"

He chuckled at that, his hands on the back of your head, gluing your forehead to his. "No, it's 'cause I know you."

"Oh, please, fuck off, for fuck's sake! Twelve years, you haven't known me, please don't give me that bullshit, how thick d'you think I am?", you hissed.

He liked that you made no move to pull away.

But he didn't like what you'd just said.

His brows furrowed for a moment, and he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits right now, do you seriously think you can just stop knowing someone?"

"Twelve years is—"

"Nothing. Twelve years is nothing. Fuck. 'M not a sap, but you sure are makin' me out to be one.", he mumbled, his jaw ticking. "Listen, hey. I'm not about to entertain myself with whatever's wrong with you, or anythin'. Just... figured I've got Lemon, if shit goes south, who've you got? Not like Burke is gonna play therapist."

Licking your lips, you looked down. "Fuck off, alright? We've been in here too long. They're gonna think we're shagging in here."

"'S long as we're not smokin', yeah?", he mimicked, gesturing at the ashtray.

"It's not allowed."

"Neither was collaboration, but we did it.", he muttered, with a tiny pat to your cheek before he manoeuvred you to look up at him again. "You'll be fine. Alright? I've gone through this before."

"What'd you do about it?"

God, he was not going to beat the sap allegations, was he?

"Thought about you, alright? Not just you, o'course. Me, you, and then, after he was transferred there, Lemon, too. All of us in that foster home. Figured those three pint-sized-pricks would judge me for thinkin' life is hard now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're... we're fighters, yeah? Survivors and that. We'll be fine because we have to be. It's our part-time job."

He tilted his head down at you. Whoa. You were actually, seriously thinking about his word vomit.

"Now, back to that fuckin' snog.", he murmured, with a sharp jerk to your jawline with his thumb.

And then, again, unexpected but not unwanted, you found yourself in an airplane bathroom snogging a guy you didn't think you'd ever see again in your adult life, with probably twice the fervour he had. Pathetic.

It's like neither of you never learn. It's all temporary with him.

You'll part ways at Seoul, and he'll go onto Tokyo with that sorry-looking passed-out-kid and you'll probably never cross paths again, but here you both were, kissing like you'll have a thousand more in your life.

Always taking things for granted.

Exactly like he was back at the foster home, always doing what he wanted.

Always pissing you off.

Always knowing you to an annoying extent.

Always being your best mate.

God, pulling away was gonna hurt like a bitch.

[etherealily]

Interaction with fic-writer, especially smaller ones — is super bad lately. REBLOG CONTENT YOU ENJOY! PLEASE! Likes do not matter!

So @gremlin-girly and I thought about something.

You wanna join? PLEASE! Even if you’re an author yourself!

You use “for you” on your dash.

Reblog. EVERY fic. (that fits with your fandom if you really are against another fandom)

You don’t wanna read it? FUCK IT! REBLOG IT! Put a reaction pic underneath and DONE!

You read it? AMAZING! How about you leave a comment?

Follow your favorite content creators! Leave an inbox message!

If you manage to reblog posts like that, signal boost them, then you can also go on the profiles and just reblog a fic…

A comment but how?

If you have time, then pick out some lines and tell the author how much you loved it. INTERACT! With the fic.

If you don’t have much time to comment, then reblog it with a small comment what you liked. And a reaction pic maybe.

KEYBOARD SMASH! comment or tags!

REBLOGS MATTER! REBLOGS ARE NOT REPOSTS!

AUTHORS BEG FOR REBLOGS!

Please! Give them some love! Let the fandom grow again!

Don’t let the small authors leave, don’t let the bigger writers leave. They all deserve so much! And with every reblog, every comment, you will get a lot of love back!

We do remember you! You reblog and comment? WE DEFINITELY REMEMBER YOU. It makes our days!

[etherealily]

😭😭😭😭

ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

(I promise I will fix the images I made them at 3 am 😭)

For @g0lden-sky. I love you, and I hope this is what you meant in this ask <3. If it sucks, tell me.

Desc. : You really can't just stop knowing someone.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Well, fuck."

He's a strong man, yes, but it's been years.

He's a strong man, yes, but every fibre of his being was angling for a glimpse at you, just one.

Lemon nudged his elbow as if he didn't have fucking eyes. "Wonder what she goes by, now."

"Probably not Lemon.", he scoffed back. "She's probably out of the fucking business, mate, alright? We'll just slip past."

Were you summat boring, a desk job? Or were you a wife? Oh, god, what if he looked down, past the legs of passers-by and there was a ring on your finger, or a child clinging to you?

And so, he looked. He allowed himself a moment, and he scanned you. No child, no ring, no carpal tunnel. You were most likely still in the business. Alright, that's good, because that meant you were a rival, and resentment was an emotion he could work with.

Hate, he could work with. Disdain? Please. Cake-walk.

But whatever this was? The yearn for lost time? He struggled a bit. Wasn't in his training, was it? Thankfully, he walked away unscathed by your presence, one that's usually daggering to him.

Fucking phew. Great. Who cares? He could move on, finish the fucking job and then— "Oi!" Fuck, Lemon.

Weeding through the crowd, practically running, you slipped away from him once more, and he shared a look with his brother.

Tangerine's fists clenched and relaxed. He counted down from ten. He took deep breaths. He licked his lips. He tried not to have a fucking aneurysm.

"What're the chances I've become really fucking handsome now, and she was turned on to the point of fleeing?", asked Lemon, nudging him once again before they followed after you.

When they finally got to you — you did not make it easy — they found themselves staring down the barrel of a gun each, trapped against an abandoned freight elevator. Their hands shot up in surrender — not an easy thing to achieve, so kudos. It's been ages since they'd done that.

"You're not our target."

"Heard that one before."

Tangerine's hand nearly accidentally dropped (dangerous), with how hearing your voice after more than a decade had startlingly affected him. Pathetic, really. But he recovered, clearing his throat. "Well, unless you're an eighty year old bloke called fuckin' Maurice, you're not our target."

Your eyes narrowed — the same eyes he's not sure he's ever quite forgotten — before the guns lowered cautiously, steadily. "You need to off Maurice?"

"He's your target, too?"

Licking your lips, you shook your head, huffing. "Not exactly. 'M just supposed to break into his hotel room, into his safe, and get whatever's in there. AMN."

Any Means Necessary.

Lemon clapped his hands together, startling you and causing you to instinctively raise the gun at him once more. "Whoa. I— I was just about to say that this works out quite nicely, yeah?"

You and Tangerine scoffed at the same time. "How?"

"You'll need him..." — Lemon clicked his tongue and ran a thumb across his throat — "... out of the way. And we're being paid to do that, yeah? Makes sense to work together."

"No, fuck off, mate, not a chance in hell. We do our thing, she does hers.", grumbled Tangerine, yanking at Lemon's elbow. "C'mon."

"Do you really not trust us?", asked Lemon, gently, as though he were calming a bear and not a paranoid assassin with two guns.

Your glare softened, and you shrugged, ardently avoiding eye contact. "Would you?"

"Fair point. But we're not interferin' with each other, though, yeah? Just aidin'. C'mon."

Why you went was a mystery to all parties involved.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

He'd never really noticed how bloody blue his eyes are. Piercing. It's actually offending him, right now. Ugh. But what other choice did he have but to stay in the bathroom and glare at his own reflection after about ten ice cold splashes (and one warm one that he did not like) over his face while you and Lemon guardedly debriefed each other in a hotel room across the floor from the target?

Well. Yeah, he could be out there, where the conversations are being had, but no. He'd have to look at you again.

To be fair, it was his fault, he'd been nothing short of a prick to you the whole way to the hotel, with comments and scoffs at every fucking thing you said, so much so that Lemon had tried to convince you he was just severely sleep-deprived, and all but ordered him to go wash his face or summat.

And so, here he was.

His fingers slid over his jaw and flicked any residual droplets off his face before he sighed, flipping himself off in the unnecessarily swanky mirror. "Bell-end. Bell-end. Knob.", he gritted out, shaking his head.

When had he turned into such a dickhead?

He took another deep breath. Counted down from ten again. Twisting the doorknob, he opened the door.

And what lovelier sight to be met with than the two of you kneeling on opposite ends of the table, glaring over the guns you'd placed there (for a show of good faith) like some sort of hostile, antagonistic coffee date?

"Right, what's all this, then?"

Grunting as he stood, and then laughing for god-knows-what-reason, Lemon thumbed at the door. "I'm doin' recon. Makin' sure he hasn't been tipped off."

"I can do it."

Lemon patted his chest, shouldering past him. "Nah, mate. Dibs."

"Lemon—"

"My codename, by the way.", informed Lemon, grinning back at you with a tiny bow.

"—I will shoot you in the fuckin' mouth."

"Sorry, mate. Dibs is sacred. And so's childhood.", he added, lowering his tone.

He hated this.

He hated when his brother played shrink.

He hated when he started with his stupid Thomas the Tank Engine analogies.

But there was nothing on God's green earth that he hated more than the fact that he couldn't hold his liquor for shit, because he'd lost the drinking game with Lemon.

Which is why he was here in front of you, after twelve years, with the codename Tange-fucking-rine.

Shoot him now.

"I'm Tangerine, if you were wonderin'.", he mumbled, clearing his throat. "What's your codename?" He'd say anything to make sure fucking "Tangerine" wasn't the last thing to ring through the room like a tuning fork.

"Don't have one. I dunno. This time, didn't feel like it."

You looked down, then. What was that about?

"That's unprofessional."

You snorted. "So's collaboration.", you said, gesturing between the two of you, and then at the gun-laden table you were still kneeling in front of.

"Yeah, but collaboration is just dangerous, not stupid-dangerous, like 'no codenames' is."

"With you two, yeah, it is stupid.", you mumbled, searching through the collection of firearms for yours.

"That's why you're sticking to petty theft like a fuckin' Oliver Twist character, and we're quite literally deemed "the best" in the business."

"I'm sorry, Citrus.", you scoffed, standing. "What the fuck do you think my last job was?"

"Pickin' locks?"

"I had to do three cleanups back-to-back, because no one does it like me. A mil' each, easy."

He rolled his eyes. What a fuckin' braggart.

"Geezer's back from the buffet!"

Brilliant.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"No, no, we've got all the time in the world, we just have a bloody decaying body under our feet, so by all means, take your time."

"Tangerine, shut up, let her do her thing."

"We shoulda just left when we had the chance, instead we're here riskin' our arses because she can't crack into a bloody safe!"

"I'm done, alright?", you hissed, hands covering your eyes as the safe opened, the lights glinting off the contents and practically blinding you.

"Straight out a Tarantino film, innit?", remarked Lemon, whistling lowly, the gold of the safe reflecting in his eyes.

Saluting the body, you slung the backpack you'd stuffed everything into over your shoulder, standing. "Pay my respects to Mr. Maurice for me."

He had to get a fucking grip, honestly. He was barely keeping from screaming at you to stay.

But, no. You were absolute chaos for him, and he was chaos for you. It's best you never saw each other again.

"What was that about?", he murmured, after you left.

"Mm?"

"That one. Absolute piece of work, yeah?", he said, thumbing behind him, at the door you've just walked out of. "Seemed off, though.", he added, offhandedly.

"What, after fifteen years? Yeah, I s'pose she's off. She's different, more like."

"Twelve, and she looks tired."

"And what do I look like, mate? Been walkin' around the fucking floor like a fuckin' guard dog makin' sure this old coot finished his plate at the buffet and gave us enough time to set up ; I'm exhausted. And we've got the flight to bloody Bolivia tonight.", Lemon grumbled, shaking his head.

He couldn't blame Lemon, really. Sure, nostalgia was a thing, but it was one that, for normal people like you and Lemon, would pass in the blink of an eye. But when had Tangerine ever been fucking normal?

"Bit of a legend, was he?", remarked Lemon, flicking at the Rolex on Maurice's wrist. "They don't even make these anymore."

"If you grave-rob, I will fuckin' riot.", he muttered, distractedly.

"Mr. Fancy Pants over here has Marlboros and shite."

Marlboros! Nicotine! Oh, yes! Oh, fuck. Alright. Nicotine.

He hasn't had a cigarette in thirty-six hours, and on top of that, he saw you ; of course he'd be all worked up. No wonder. Alright. He can rest easy now.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

Fresh off seventeen kills and a migraine, Tangerine really did not have time for this absolute bull. Honestly. In the span of, say, two bloody weeks, you'd shown up twice, and he didn't like that.

He used to know you better than the back of his hand, and now?

Both of your hands are painted with unfamiliar scars.

"You gonna go say 'hi'?"

"What, with this thing hangin' off my arm?", he scoffed, gesturing at The Son of the fucking White Death. "I'd rather not parade 'im about, all unconscious-like."

"Mate."

He was still glaring at you, and it took a couple thumps to his shoulder to make him turn. "What?"

"Don't be a James."

"Here we fuckin' go.", mumbled Tangerine, shaking his head. "I swear, this bloke wakes up, you'll find his ears bleedin', 'cause you've been on and on about bloody Thomas The Tank Engine the entire fuckin' journey to Tokyo."

"Listen, James fucked up so much because of one thing. What was it?", asked Lemon, pointing his finger at him, with his other hand on his shoulder like a mentor.

"Bein' low-quality animation?"

"Pride. Pride. He was so bloody proud of his bloody red paint job that he—", he cut himself off, though, rubbing at his nape. "Alright, if there really is somethin' off with her, this is your chance to gloat that you're better at readin' people than me."

Huh.

See, that incentivised him more than being compared to some annoying red, animated train.

~~

"We must stop meetin' like this."

Your head swivelled around, and he's sure he could sort of see the faintest, dimmest hint of the spark he'd seen across from him on the see-saw all those years back...? He couldn't be entirely sure.

You smiled, which was a good sign, but the spark wasn't fully there, and he hated it. You moving to the window seat so he could sit by you, stretching? Proof you weren't a total cunt now that you're all grown up.

"You goin' to Tokyo, then?"

"No, connecting flight to Seoul and then I'm off. The stop before Tokyo.", you added, when he looked at you as if you'd explained it all in Greek.

He nodded, flicking at the headphones on the seat pocket once he wrangled them out of it. "Right."

"You're going to Tokyo?"

"Yeah. Been dragging this poor boy all the way from Bolivia to now bloody São Paulo, and then another connecting flight— god, it's exhausting. His old man's so rich, shouldn't he be gettin' a private jet or summat?", he sighed, his hand rubbing over his eyes in sheer fatigue.

"Wouldn't that be the first place his enemies look, though?"

"How about you stop with the logic, yeah? 'S annoying."

The two of you laughed for a bit, and the nostalgia shot him in the mouth. Didn't seem to for you, though, you were avoiding eye contact like you'd been caught robbing Maurice.

He tried his best to stay patient as you looked out the window, tried to focus on getting his arm off the armrest because the aisles were clogged up with passengers brushing past. He moved to the middle seat. One seat closer to you.

More silence. Why did he let Lemon talk him into this?

He didn't know what to say, but he knew what he wouldn't say. Summat dumb like "you're lookin' well", or "how you been?", or — god forbid — "long time, no see".

"So. What you been doin' all this time?"

God. So much for not being dumb.

A shrug. You were infuriating.

"Me? Lemon and I, we have quite a bit of fun, actually.", he continued. "Made a name for ourselves and that. What about you? You been doin' Burke, I s'pose?"

"Not "doing" Burke, but yeah, he's still my handler.", you chuckled, biting the inside of your cheek. "But just been doin' jobs, y'know? Just... whatever."

"Whatever?", he pushed, furrowing his brows. "Thought you had fun on the job. You alright?"

"'M fine."

Tangerine nodded, fiddling with the headphones again.

"If it was what I said in Dubai, I was just bein' a bastard, tryna get under your skin, and, to be fair, I was cranky 'cause I got no sleep.", he muttered.

"Well then, maybe go to sleep, then. 'S a long flight."

In his own seat, you meant. He could take a hint.

"Wow. Twelve years, and you still don't wanna look back.", he grumbled, standing up to leave.

But he couldn't. Not when you grabbed his wrist.

"What?"

Alright, mate, c'mon, now's your time to shine. Wow her.

"At me. You don't wanna look back at me, maybe see that you're bein' a bit of a bitch."

Alright, not the best start, callin' her a bitch, but it's alright, it's alright, we can recover.

"A bitch? For not wanting t—"

A quick flick of his wrist and suddenly, it was him grabbing yours. "Come with me, yeah?"

He was genuinely lucky you listened.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Alright, now that there's no witnesses if one of us bloody kills the other, can you tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"

"Listen, mate, we don't know each other anymore. I'm not about to have some makeshift therapy session in an airplane bathroom because we pinky-promised or summat when we were six!", you whisper-yelled, and all the air was knocked out of him.

The spark. It blazed. It was you —fucking finally — sitting in front of him.

"We actually crossed our hearts, but I won't take that personally.", he muttered, solemnly.

A moment, and he couldn't help the smile (though he was a worthy competitor against it) when you started snickering.

"Fuck, we were corny."

"Yeah.", he agreed, nodding. "But we were also best mates."

"Right."

"Pisses me off, though."

"What?"

"The fact that anytime I hear 'best mate', I'm immediately thinking of — and looking around for — you."

"I thought that was Lemon out there."

"No, he's my brother. Brothers are different, he means so much to me that we have no choice but to get on with each other. You, though.", he huffed.

"Me, though?"

He shook his head, flicking your forehead. "You, though.", he muttered, somehow managing to move closer and hold your jaw with one hand. "You're something else. I have a choice, and I'm still tryin' to get on with you. So get on with it. Spit it out."

"I have a choice, and I don't want to."

Ugh! Could you not back-talk him for once in your fucking life?! Why did he even try? What was even the fucking point?

You'd leave at Seoul, and if you were so inclined, you'd share a handshake or two, he and Lemon would be off with the bloke in Tokyo, and then you'd all be on your merry ways.

As it should be.

But then, a vision. A flash, and suddenly, he was seven years old again, grinning at you after the recruiters came and went.

"We're gettin' adopted."

"We're gettin' recruited.", he reminded. "You did so well."

"I choked, is what I did."

If he thought you seemed vulnerable now, he'd have melted for seven-year-old you.

"No, no, trust me, none of the other girls assembled that gun as fast as you." "You sure?" "I was watching."

He figured that maybe a similar segue may be able to fill in the silence. Even if you didn't respond immediately, at least you'd be stabbed with unsettling nostalgia that got you to open up.

"You were very quick with the gun. Back in Dubai."

Furrowing your brows, you tore your gaze away from the bathroom door and fixed it back up at him. "...Thank you?"

"'S not a compliment. 'S an observation."

"Observations can be compliments."

"Yeah, but not this one.", he shot back. A pause. "You bein' hunted?"

"No." No. Well, that's good. He didn't need to become a target, too.

"I was quick with the gun because it's a high-profile job. 'M not bein' hunted."

He let out a low whistle, nodding as he looked past you for a moment. "Just tryin' to make conversation.", he muttered, running his hands over his face, and then hair, and then suit, and finally deciding on firmly perching them onto the edge of the sink.

"Maybe don't."

When has he ever listened to you?

"Hey. If you could look at me, that'd be fuckin' fantastic. Yeah, there you go. Stop bein' all secretive and fuckin' tell me why you look like you're about to jump off this fuckin' plane."

It's like he'd never changed. Yeah, sure, he's taller, fitter, and the muscles he'd claimed to have when he was thirteen had seemed to take the hint and actually show up, but he's still the annoying little twat that would mock you for having feelings while simultaneously moving hell and back (to the extent of his abilities) to solve your problems for you.

So, for your best mate, you sighed.

"I'm tired, alright?! I feel like shit, and I dunno why! Alright? Probably something in the air."

Something in the air. God, you were getting on his fucking nerves.

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring for a moment, before nodding, reaching into his pocket. "You had any cigs lately?"

What?

"No."

"See, that's a problem, that.", he explained, pointing a ringed finger at you as if he'd just deigned you with the knowledge of the century, and you were supposed to give him your firstborn as thanks. "Nicotine solves half of all that."

The flame flickered in front of his eyes momentarily before he flicked the lighter off, handing the lit cig to you.

"Are you mockin' me?"

Jesus fuck, I'm caring, you absolute twat.

He moved closer still. Gripped your jaw even harder. Used said grip to shake your jaw after each word he said, to prove his point.

"All you are is your job. Your work. You don't think you're even a person anymore, and you're tired of that."

It was adorable, you glaring at him while he shook your jaw.

"Let me go."

"You're not sure who you are, and it scares you, because everyone else seems to."

You hissed his name, his real name, and he nearly dropped his hand from your jaw. The last person to ever utter his name had also been the first person to do so, twelve years later? That's some chaotic shite right there.

"You're terrified that you don't matter. And you're terrified that whatever you wanna do, whatever you wanna make of your life, you'll never fuckin' get it, because you've got Burke and your job on your fuckin' arse all the time. Yeah?"

He had to chill out about Burke. You'd catch on.

Your jaw clenched under his fingers, and the corner of his lip turned up just a tad. "Blink twice if I'm right.", he teased, his forehead nearly on yours.

"Fuck off."

He simpered at the force of your shove. Still no match for his assholic streak, his impishness, the absolute cheek and audacity imbibed in his blood.

"Ah, so I'm right on the fuckin' money, then.", he grinned, rubbing your bottom lip between his fingers, forming a pout. "I'll fuck right off after you admit it."

When you stayed silent, he offered you the cigarette once more.

"I don't smoke. Put that out. 'S not allowed, anyway."

"If it weren't allowed, they wouldn't have this thing over here, now would they?", he asked, tapping at the ashtray on the wall.

And then... look, whatever. He's an idiot. We've established this. He's an idiot, and he's a bit of an arsehole, let's be honest.

He didn't know why he did it, in all honesty. Bathroom's already really fucking cramped, so this was really not the best thing for him to be doin', unless he wanted to induce fucking claustrophobia.

Snogging an already pissed-off assassin in an airplane bathroom was right up there with the dumbest things he'd ever done in his life. For instance, two years ago, having to crash a child's birthday party because of mistaken identity.

"Oi, what—"

What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?!

"Mm? Sorry, couldn't hear you over this snog, sorry? What?", he murmured against your lips. What a bastard!

"What's wrong with y—"

"I was right on the money, wasn't I? As I said, I'll fuck right off if you just admit it."

"FINE!"

"Yeah?"

"Fine! Yeah, sure, fuck off. You might be right."

"Wanna know how I know?"

"Some other member of the Fruit Bowl told you? Grapefruit or Lime, or summat?"

He chuckled at that, his hands on the back of your head, gluing your forehead to his. "No, it's 'cause I know you."

"Oh, please, fuck off, for fuck's sake! Twelve years, you haven't known me, please don't give me that bullshit, how thick d'you think I am?", you hissed.

He liked that you made no move to pull away.

But he didn't like what you'd just said.

His brows furrowed for a moment, and he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits right now, do you seriously think you can just stop knowing someone?"

"Twelve years is—"

"Nothing. Twelve years is nothing. Fuck. 'M not a sap, but you sure are makin' me out to be one.", he mumbled, his jaw ticking. "Listen, hey. I'm not about to entertain myself with whatever's wrong with you, or anythin'. Just... figured I've got Lemon, if shit goes south, who've you got? Not like Burke is gonna play therapist."

Licking your lips, you looked down. "Fuck off, alright? We've been in here too long. They're gonna think we're shagging in here."

"'S long as we're not smokin', yeah?", he mimicked, gesturing at the ashtray.

"It's not allowed."

"Neither was collaboration, but we did it.", he muttered, with a tiny pat to your cheek before he manoeuvred you to look up at him again. "You'll be fine. Alright? I've gone through this before."

"What'd you do about it?"

God, he was not going to beat the sap allegations, was he?

"Thought about you, alright? Not just you, o'course. Me, you, and then, after he was transferred there, Lemon, too. All of us in that foster home. Figured those three pint-sized-pricks would judge me for thinkin' life is hard now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're... we're fighters, yeah? Survivors and that. We'll be fine because we have to be. It's our part-time job."

He tilted his head down at you. Whoa. You were actually, seriously thinking about his word vomit.

"Now, back to that fuckin' snog.", he murmured, with a sharp jerk to your jawline with his thumb.

And then, again, unexpected but not unwanted, you found yourself in an airplane bathroom snogging a guy you didn't think you'd ever see again in your adult life, with probably twice the fervour he had. Pathetic.

It's like neither of you never learn. It's all temporary with him.

You'll part ways at Seoul, and he'll go onto Tokyo with that sorry-looking passed-out-kid and you'll probably never cross paths again, but here you both were, kissing like you'll have a thousand more in your life.

Always taking things for granted.

Exactly like he was back at the foster home, always doing what he wanted.

Always pissing you off.

Always knowing you to an annoying extent.

Always being your best mate.

God, pulling away was gonna hurt like a bitch.

[etherealily]

glitch reblog

ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ // ᴛᴀɴɢᴇʀɪɴᴇ

My other Tangerine fics. If you have the time.

Tangerine + fem!reader. Cuss words.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

(I promise I will fix the images I made them at 3 am 😭)

For @g0lden-sky. I love you, and I hope this is what you meant in this ask <3. If it sucks, tell me.

Desc. : You really can't just stop knowing someone.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Well, fuck."

He's a strong man, yes, but it's been years.

He's a strong man, yes, but every fibre of his being was angling for a glimpse at you, just one.

Lemon nudged his elbow as if he didn't have fucking eyes. "Wonder what she goes by, now."

"Probably not Lemon.", he scoffed back. "She's probably out of the fucking business, mate, alright? We'll just slip past."

Were you summat boring, a desk job? Or were you a wife? Oh, god, what if he looked down, past the legs of passers-by and there was a ring on your finger, or a child clinging to you?

And so, he looked. He allowed himself a moment, and he scanned you. No child, no ring, no carpal tunnel. You were most likely still in the business. Alright, that's good, because that meant you were a rival, and resentment was an emotion he could work with.

Hate, he could work with. Disdain? Please. Cake-walk.

But whatever this was? The yearn for lost time? He struggled a bit. Wasn't in his training, was it? Thankfully, he walked away unscathed by your presence, one that's usually daggering to him.

Fucking phew. Great. Who cares? He could move on, finish the fucking job and then— "Oi!" Fuck, Lemon.

Weeding through the crowd, practically running, you slipped away from him once more, and he shared a look with his brother.

Tangerine's fists clenched and relaxed. He counted down from ten. He took deep breaths. He licked his lips. He tried not to have a fucking aneurysm.

"What're the chances I've become really fucking handsome now, and she was turned on to the point of fleeing?", asked Lemon, nudging him once again before they followed after you.

When they finally got to you — you did not make it easy — they found themselves staring down the barrel of a gun each, trapped against an abandoned freight elevator. Their hands shot up in surrender — not an easy thing to achieve, so kudos. It's been ages since they'd done that.

"You're not our target."

"Heard that one before."

Tangerine's hand nearly accidentally dropped (dangerous), with how hearing your voice after more than a decade had startlingly affected him. Pathetic, really. But he recovered, clearing his throat. "Well, unless you're an eighty year old bloke called fuckin' Maurice, you're not our target."

Your eyes narrowed — the same eyes he's not sure he's ever quite forgotten — before the guns lowered cautiously, steadily. "You need to off Maurice?"

"He's your target, too?"

Licking your lips, you shook your head, huffing. "Not exactly. 'M just supposed to break into his hotel room, into his safe, and get whatever's in there. AMN."

Any Means Necessary.

Lemon clapped his hands together, startling you and causing you to instinctively raise the gun at him once more. "Whoa. I— I was just about to say that this works out quite nicely, yeah?"

You and Tangerine scoffed at the same time. "How?"

"You'll need him..." — Lemon clicked his tongue and ran a thumb across his throat — "... out of the way. And we're being paid to do that, yeah? Makes sense to work together."

"No, fuck off, mate, not a chance in hell. We do our thing, she does hers.", grumbled Tangerine, yanking at Lemon's elbow. "C'mon."

"Do you really not trust us?", asked Lemon, gently, as though he were calming a bear and not a paranoid assassin with two guns.

Your glare softened, and you shrugged, ardently avoiding eye contact. "Would you?"

"Fair point. But we're not interferin' with each other, though, yeah? Just aidin'. C'mon."

Why you went was a mystery to all parties involved.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

He'd never really noticed how bloody blue his eyes are. Piercing. It's actually offending him, right now. Ugh. But what other choice did he have but to stay in the bathroom and glare at his own reflection after about ten ice cold splashes (and one warm one that he did not like) over his face while you and Lemon guardedly debriefed each other in a hotel room across the floor from the target?

Well. Yeah, he could be out there, where the conversations are being had, but no. He'd have to look at you again.

To be fair, it was his fault, he'd been nothing short of a prick to you the whole way to the hotel, with comments and scoffs at every fucking thing you said, so much so that Lemon had tried to convince you he was just severely sleep-deprived, and all but ordered him to go wash his face or summat.

And so, here he was.

His fingers slid over his jaw and flicked any residual droplets off his face before he sighed, flipping himself off in the unnecessarily swanky mirror. "Bell-end. Bell-end. Knob.", he gritted out, shaking his head.

When had he turned into such a dickhead?

He took another deep breath. Counted down from ten again. Twisting the doorknob, he opened the door.

And what lovelier sight to be met with than the two of you kneeling on opposite ends of the table, glaring over the guns you'd placed there (for a show of good faith) like some sort of hostile, antagonistic coffee date?

"Right, what's all this, then?"

Grunting as he stood, and then laughing for god-knows-what-reason, Lemon thumbed at the door. "I'm doin' recon. Makin' sure he hasn't been tipped off."

"I can do it."

Lemon patted his chest, shouldering past him. "Nah, mate. Dibs."

"Lemon—"

"My codename, by the way.", informed Lemon, grinning back at you with a tiny bow.

"—I will shoot you in the fuckin' mouth."

"Sorry, mate. Dibs is sacred. And so's childhood.", he added, lowering his tone.

He hated this.

He hated when his brother played shrink.

He hated when he started with his stupid Thomas the Tank Engine analogies.

But there was nothing on God's green earth that he hated more than the fact that he couldn't hold his liquor for shit, because he'd lost the drinking game with Lemon.

Which is why he was here in front of you, after twelve years, with the codename Tange-fucking-rine.

Shoot him now.

"I'm Tangerine, if you were wonderin'.", he mumbled, clearing his throat. "What's your codename?" He'd say anything to make sure fucking "Tangerine" wasn't the last thing to ring through the room like a tuning fork.

"Don't have one. I dunno. This time, didn't feel like it."

You looked down, then. What was that about?

"That's unprofessional."

You snorted. "So's collaboration.", you said, gesturing between the two of you, and then at the gun-laden table you were still kneeling in front of.

"Yeah, but collaboration is just dangerous, not stupid-dangerous, like 'no codenames' is."

"With you two, yeah, it is stupid.", you mumbled, searching through the collection of firearms for yours.

"That's why you're sticking to petty theft like a fuckin' Oliver Twist character, and we're quite literally deemed "the best" in the business."

"I'm sorry, Citrus.", you scoffed, standing. "What the fuck do you think my last job was?"

"Pickin' locks?"

"I had to do three cleanups back-to-back, because no one does it like me. A mil' each, easy."

He rolled his eyes. What a fuckin' braggart.

"Geezer's back from the buffet!"

Brilliant.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"No, no, we've got all the time in the world, we just have a bloody decaying body under our feet, so by all means, take your time."

"Tangerine, shut up, let her do her thing."

"We shoulda just left when we had the chance, instead we're here riskin' our arses because she can't crack into a bloody safe!"

"I'm done, alright?", you hissed, hands covering your eyes as the safe opened, the lights glinting off the contents and practically blinding you.

"Straight out a Tarantino film, innit?", remarked Lemon, whistling lowly, the gold of the safe reflecting in his eyes.

Saluting the body, you slung the backpack you'd stuffed everything into over your shoulder, standing. "Pay my respects to Mr. Maurice for me."

He had to get a fucking grip, honestly. He was barely keeping from screaming at you to stay.

But, no. You were absolute chaos for him, and he was chaos for you. It's best you never saw each other again.

"What was that about?", he murmured, after you left.

"Mm?"

"That one. Absolute piece of work, yeah?", he said, thumbing behind him, at the door you've just walked out of. "Seemed off, though.", he added, offhandedly.

"What, after fifteen years? Yeah, I s'pose she's off. She's different, more like."

"Twelve, and she looks tired."

"And what do I look like, mate? Been walkin' around the fucking floor like a fuckin' guard dog makin' sure this old coot finished his plate at the buffet and gave us enough time to set up ; I'm exhausted. And we've got the flight to bloody Bolivia tonight.", Lemon grumbled, shaking his head.

He couldn't blame Lemon, really. Sure, nostalgia was a thing, but it was one that, for normal people like you and Lemon, would pass in the blink of an eye. But when had Tangerine ever been fucking normal?

"Bit of a legend, was he?", remarked Lemon, flicking at the Rolex on Maurice's wrist. "They don't even make these anymore."

"If you grave-rob, I will fuckin' riot.", he muttered, distractedly.

"Mr. Fancy Pants over here has Marlboros and shite."

Marlboros! Nicotine! Oh, yes! Oh, fuck. Alright. Nicotine.

He hasn't had a cigarette in thirty-six hours, and on top of that, he saw you ; of course he'd be all worked up. No wonder. Alright. He can rest easy now.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

Fresh off seventeen kills and a migraine, Tangerine really did not have time for this absolute bull. Honestly. In the span of, say, two bloody weeks, you'd shown up twice, and he didn't like that.

He used to know you better than the back of his hand, and now?

Both of your hands are painted with unfamiliar scars.

"You gonna go say 'hi'?"

"What, with this thing hangin' off my arm?", he scoffed, gesturing at The Son of the fucking White Death. "I'd rather not parade 'im about, all unconscious-like."

"Mate."

He was still glaring at you, and it took a couple thumps to his shoulder to make him turn. "What?"

"Don't be a James."

"Here we fuckin' go.", mumbled Tangerine, shaking his head. "I swear, this bloke wakes up, you'll find his ears bleedin', 'cause you've been on and on about bloody Thomas The Tank Engine the entire fuckin' journey to Tokyo."

"Listen, James fucked up so much because of one thing. What was it?", asked Lemon, pointing his finger at him, with his other hand on his shoulder like a mentor.

"Bein' low-quality animation?"

"Pride. Pride. He was so bloody proud of his bloody red paint job that he—", he cut himself off, though, rubbing at his nape. "Alright, if there really is somethin' off with her, this is your chance to gloat that you're better at readin' people than me."

Huh.

See, that incentivised him more than being compared to some annoying red, animated train.

~~

"We must stop meetin' like this."

Your head swivelled around, and he's sure he could sort of see the faintest, dimmest hint of the spark he'd seen across from him on the see-saw all those years back...? He couldn't be entirely sure.

You smiled, which was a good sign, but the spark wasn't fully there, and he hated it. You moving to the window seat so he could sit by you, stretching? Proof you weren't a total cunt now that you're all grown up.

"You goin' to Tokyo, then?"

"No, connecting flight to Seoul and then I'm off. The stop before Tokyo.", you added, when he looked at you as if you'd explained it all in Greek.

He nodded, flicking at the headphones on the seat pocket once he wrangled them out of it. "Right."

"You're going to Tokyo?"

"Yeah. Been dragging this poor boy all the way from Bolivia to now bloody São Paulo, and then another connecting flight— god, it's exhausting. His old man's so rich, shouldn't he be gettin' a private jet or summat?", he sighed, his hand rubbing over his eyes in sheer fatigue.

"Wouldn't that be the first place his enemies look, though?"

"How about you stop with the logic, yeah? 'S annoying."

The two of you laughed for a bit, and the nostalgia shot him in the mouth. Didn't seem to for you, though, you were avoiding eye contact like you'd been caught robbing Maurice.

He tried his best to stay patient as you looked out the window, tried to focus on getting his arm off the armrest because the aisles were clogged up with passengers brushing past. He moved to the middle seat. One seat closer to you.

More silence. Why did he let Lemon talk him into this?

He didn't know what to say, but he knew what he wouldn't say. Summat dumb like "you're lookin' well", or "how you been?", or — god forbid — "long time, no see".

"So. What you been doin' all this time?"

God. So much for not being dumb.

A shrug. You were infuriating.

"Me? Lemon and I, we have quite a bit of fun, actually.", he continued. "Made a name for ourselves and that. What about you? You been doin' Burke, I s'pose?"

"Not "doing" Burke, but yeah, he's still my handler.", you chuckled, biting the inside of your cheek. "But just been doin' jobs, y'know? Just... whatever."

"Whatever?", he pushed, furrowing his brows. "Thought you had fun on the job. You alright?"

"'M fine."

Tangerine nodded, fiddling with the headphones again.

"If it was what I said in Dubai, I was just bein' a bastard, tryna get under your skin, and, to be fair, I was cranky 'cause I got no sleep.", he muttered.

"Well then, maybe go to sleep, then. 'S a long flight."

In his own seat, you meant. He could take a hint.

"Wow. Twelve years, and you still don't wanna look back.", he grumbled, standing up to leave.

But he couldn't. Not when you grabbed his wrist.

"What?"

Alright, mate, c'mon, now's your time to shine. Wow her.

"At me. You don't wanna look back at me, maybe see that you're bein' a bit of a bitch."

Alright, not the best start, callin' her a bitch, but it's alright, it's alright, we can recover.

"A bitch? For not wanting t—"

A quick flick of his wrist and suddenly, it was him grabbing yours. "Come with me, yeah?"

He was genuinely lucky you listened.

⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊⁺₊

"Alright, now that there's no witnesses if one of us bloody kills the other, can you tell me what the fuck's goin' on?"

"Listen, mate, we don't know each other anymore. I'm not about to have some makeshift therapy session in an airplane bathroom because we pinky-promised or summat when we were six!", you whisper-yelled, and all the air was knocked out of him.

The spark. It blazed. It was you —fucking finally — sitting in front of him.

"We actually crossed our hearts, but I won't take that personally.", he muttered, solemnly.

A moment, and he couldn't help the smile (though he was a worthy competitor against it) when you started snickering.

"Fuck, we were corny."

"Yeah.", he agreed, nodding. "But we were also best mates."

"Right."

"Pisses me off, though."

"What?"

"The fact that anytime I hear 'best mate', I'm immediately thinking of — and looking around for — you."

"I thought that was Lemon out there."

"No, he's my brother. Brothers are different, he means so much to me that we have no choice but to get on with each other. You, though.", he huffed.

"Me, though?"

He shook his head, flicking your forehead. "You, though.", he muttered, somehow managing to move closer and hold your jaw with one hand. "You're something else. I have a choice, and I'm still tryin' to get on with you. So get on with it. Spit it out."

"I have a choice, and I don't want to."

Ugh! Could you not back-talk him for once in your fucking life?! Why did he even try? What was even the fucking point?

You'd leave at Seoul, and if you were so inclined, you'd share a handshake or two, he and Lemon would be off with the bloke in Tokyo, and then you'd all be on your merry ways.

As it should be.

But then, a vision. A flash, and suddenly, he was seven years old again, grinning at you after the recruiters came and went.

"We're gettin' adopted."

"We're gettin' recruited.", he reminded. "You did so well."

"I choked, is what I did."

If he thought you seemed vulnerable now, he'd have melted for seven-year-old you.

"No, no, trust me, none of the other girls assembled that gun as fast as you." "You sure?" "I was watching."

He figured that maybe a similar segue may be able to fill in the silence. Even if you didn't respond immediately, at least you'd be stabbed with unsettling nostalgia that got you to open up.

"You were very quick with the gun. Back in Dubai."

Furrowing your brows, you tore your gaze away from the bathroom door and fixed it back up at him. "...Thank you?"

"'S not a compliment. 'S an observation."

"Observations can be compliments."

"Yeah, but not this one.", he shot back. A pause. "You bein' hunted?"

"No." No. Well, that's good. He didn't need to become a target, too.

"I was quick with the gun because it's a high-profile job. 'M not bein' hunted."

He let out a low whistle, nodding as he looked past you for a moment. "Just tryin' to make conversation.", he muttered, running his hands over his face, and then hair, and then suit, and finally deciding on firmly perching them onto the edge of the sink.

"Maybe don't."

When has he ever listened to you?

"Hey. If you could look at me, that'd be fuckin' fantastic. Yeah, there you go. Stop bein' all secretive and fuckin' tell me why you look like you're about to jump off this fuckin' plane."

It's like he'd never changed. Yeah, sure, he's taller, fitter, and the muscles he'd claimed to have when he was thirteen had seemed to take the hint and actually show up, but he's still the annoying little twat that would mock you for having feelings while simultaneously moving hell and back (to the extent of his abilities) to solve your problems for you.

So, for your best mate, you sighed.

"I'm tired, alright?! I feel like shit, and I dunno why! Alright? Probably something in the air."

Something in the air. God, you were getting on his fucking nerves.

He narrowed his eyes at you, staring for a moment, before nodding, reaching into his pocket. "You had any cigs lately?"

What?

"No."

"See, that's a problem, that.", he explained, pointing a ringed finger at you as if he'd just deigned you with the knowledge of the century, and you were supposed to give him your firstborn as thanks. "Nicotine solves half of all that."

The flame flickered in front of his eyes momentarily before he flicked the lighter off, handing the lit cig to you.

"Are you mockin' me?"

Jesus fuck, I'm caring, you absolute twat.

He moved closer still. Gripped your jaw even harder. Used said grip to shake your jaw after each word he said, to prove his point.

"All you are is your job. Your work. You don't think you're even a person anymore, and you're tired of that."

It was adorable, you glaring at him while he shook your jaw.

"Let me go."

"You're not sure who you are, and it scares you, because everyone else seems to."

You hissed his name, his real name, and he nearly dropped his hand from your jaw. The last person to ever utter his name had also been the first person to do so, twelve years later? That's some chaotic shite right there.

"You're terrified that you don't matter. And you're terrified that whatever you wanna do, whatever you wanna make of your life, you'll never fuckin' get it, because you've got Burke and your job on your fuckin' arse all the time. Yeah?"

He had to chill out about Burke. You'd catch on.

Your jaw clenched under his fingers, and the corner of his lip turned up just a tad. "Blink twice if I'm right.", he teased, his forehead nearly on yours.

"Fuck off."

He simpered at the force of your shove. Still no match for his assholic streak, his impishness, the absolute cheek and audacity imbibed in his blood.

"Ah, so I'm right on the fuckin' money, then.", he grinned, rubbing your bottom lip between his fingers, forming a pout. "I'll fuck right off after you admit it."

When you stayed silent, he offered you the cigarette once more.

"I don't smoke. Put that out. 'S not allowed, anyway."

"If it weren't allowed, they wouldn't have this thing over here, now would they?", he asked, tapping at the ashtray on the wall.

And then... look, whatever. He's an idiot. We've established this. He's an idiot, and he's a bit of an arsehole, let's be honest.

He didn't know why he did it, in all honesty. Bathroom's already really fucking cramped, so this was really not the best thing for him to be doin', unless he wanted to induce fucking claustrophobia.

Snogging an already pissed-off assassin in an airplane bathroom was right up there with the dumbest things he'd ever done in his life. For instance, two years ago, having to crash a child's birthday party because of mistaken identity.

"Oi, what—"

What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?!

"Mm? Sorry, couldn't hear you over this snog, sorry? What?", he murmured against your lips. What a bastard!

"What's wrong with y—"

"I was right on the money, wasn't I? As I said, I'll fuck right off if you just admit it."

"FINE!"

"Yeah?"

"Fine! Yeah, sure, fuck off. You might be right."

"Wanna know how I know?"

"Some other member of the Fruit Bowl told you? Grapefruit or Lime, or summat?"

He chuckled at that, his hands on the back of your head, gluing your forehead to his. "No, it's 'cause I know you."

"Oh, please, fuck off, for fuck's sake! Twelve years, you haven't known me, please don't give me that bullshit, how thick d'you think I am?", you hissed.

He liked that you made no move to pull away.

But he didn't like what you'd just said.

His brows furrowed for a moment, and he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits right now, do you seriously think you can just stop knowing someone?"

"Twelve years is—"

"Nothing. Twelve years is nothing. Fuck. 'M not a sap, but you sure are makin' me out to be one.", he mumbled, his jaw ticking. "Listen, hey. I'm not about to entertain myself with whatever's wrong with you, or anythin'. Just... figured I've got Lemon, if shit goes south, who've you got? Not like Burke is gonna play therapist."

Licking your lips, you looked down. "Fuck off, alright? We've been in here too long. They're gonna think we're shagging in here."

"'S long as we're not smokin', yeah?", he mimicked, gesturing at the ashtray.

"It's not allowed."

"Neither was collaboration, but we did it.", he muttered, with a tiny pat to your cheek before he manoeuvred you to look up at him again. "You'll be fine. Alright? I've gone through this before."

"What'd you do about it?"

God, he was not going to beat the sap allegations, was he?

"Thought about you, alright? Not just you, o'course. Me, you, and then, after he was transferred there, Lemon, too. All of us in that foster home. Figured those three pint-sized-pricks would judge me for thinkin' life is hard now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We're... we're fighters, yeah? Survivors and that. We'll be fine because we have to be. It's our part-time job."

He tilted his head down at you. Whoa. You were actually, seriously thinking about his word vomit.

"Now, back to that fuckin' snog.", he murmured, with a sharp jerk to your jawline with his thumb.

And then, again, unexpected but not unwanted, you found yourself in an airplane bathroom snogging a guy you didn't think you'd ever see again in your adult life, with probably twice the fervour he had. Pathetic.

It's like neither of you never learn. It's all temporary with him.

You'll part ways at Seoul, and he'll go onto Tokyo with that sorry-looking passed-out-kid and you'll probably never cross paths again, but here you both were, kissing like you'll have a thousand more in your life.

Always taking things for granted.

Exactly like he was back at the foster home, always doing what he wanted.

Always pissing you off.

Always knowing you to an annoying extent.

Always being your best mate.

God, pulling away was gonna hurt like a bitch.