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spencersmopbucket · 7 days ago

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No Papers Served | Finnick Odair

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: A few years back, you and Finnick separated in your marriage. When you reunite in preparation of the Quarter Quell, you're hit with a quick reminder that it wasn't legally bound. Warnings & Themes: violence KINDA, yearning, mostly light hearted, tension, kind of angst with resolution

He saw you before you saw him. He always did.

The Tribute Parade was always an affair designed to dazzle and distract. Smoke curled from the torches lining the avenue, wafting upward into the Capitol sky as cheers thundered from the balconies above. The light of hundreds of flashbulbs flickered like heat lightning across the square. Gold and crimson banners fluttered from windows. Music throbbed like a heartbeat beneath the surface of it all.

And you stood still at the center of it.

Glitter shimmered across your bare shoulders and collarbone, catching in your lashes as your chariot rolled forward. The stylists had outdone themselves. You were dressed to intimidate, wrapped in sleek fabric the color of ink and dark forests. It hugged your form like a second skin, whispering of elegance and violence in equal measure.

You could feel his eyes. After years of him admiring you, you knew exactly what it felt like when his eyes heated up your skin. You refused to look back.

The crowd loved it.

They always did.

Because your persona, the one you crafted from survival and smoke, was made for this moment. Silent. Cold. Deadly. A mystery dressed in deadly grace. You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. You didn’t need to.

You just stared ahead, chin lifted, eyes like cut glass and the Capitol roared for it.

Your district partner stood beside you in the chariot, stiff and sweating under the lights, trying to look like they belonged there. You didn’t offer them comfort. Not because you were cruel, but because comfort made things worse. You knew that firsthand.

Up ahead, the circle of the Avenue of the Tributes widened. Firelight danced across the giant Capitol seal. You passed by chariots from the other districts -- flickers of silk, armor, feathers, fire. Every pair a tragic story, rewrapped in glitter and spectacle.

It was a horrific event, at least in your eyes. This was when it became real. Your name being called on the stage to ride back into war hadn't hit as hard as you being served up to President Snow on a silver platter, wearing your finest clothes.

Every step of the horses pulling your chariot forward echoed in your bones. Every cheer from the crowd reminded you that they didn’t want to save you -- they wanted to remember you.

And that was the Capitol’s favorite illusion: that this wasn’t a massacre. That it was theater. Entertainment. That it could be gilded enough to hide the blood.

Your spine was straight. Your gaze unflinching. But inside, your stomach churned with every passing second.

And somewhere, in another chariot, under the same false lights and fire, was the man you hadn’t touched in months, the man whose name still twisted something sharp and unspoken in your chest.

Finnick Odair.

You didn’t look for him. Not yet. Simply because you could feel him looking at you.

You'd married him. You'd spent years in love, years preparing for a future that neither of you knew would never happen. As things heated up in the Capitol with Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, it became harder to see each other. Your expectations and loyalties to the Capitol became more demanding. Snow didn't care about your union, though of course he'd televised it and made it a huge deal -- the union of two districts.

But it was just that. You were from Seven and he was from Four. Two different districts with two different expectations from the same overlord.

Snow didn't love you as much as he did Finnick. Finnick was more useful.

He started coming home less and less until it was months in between. And finally, the last time he came home, you weren't there.

You were tired.

Tired of waiting in empty rooms. Tired of seeing your love turned into propaganda. Tired of waking up to a world that always wanted more than it gave back.

So you went home. Back to Seven. Back to the trees. Back to something real.

No papers were served. No separation announced. Snow wouldn’t allow it -- the Capitol didn’t like broken fairytales.

But the silence was enough. The absence was enough. It was unspoken, but the citizens knew. It was a tragic love story of two Victors broken up.

And now… now, you were both here again. Painted and packaged and paraded through the streets like gods on a pyre.

You didn’t look for him.

Because you didn’t need to.

Your partner's voice interrupted your thoughts.

Blight smirked beside you, casual in the way only someone long used to horror could be. His arms were folded over his chest, eyes scanning the crowd like he was counting exits instead of cheers.

“You’re doing well,” he drawled, leaning just slightly toward you. “Lover boy? Not so much.”

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at Finnick either. Not yet.

But something flickered in your chest. That name. Lover boy. Like it wasn’t more than that. Like it didn’t still sting. Like the burn didn’t still linger in the softest parts of you.

“Is that so?” you murmured, keeping your face placid, your smile frozen in place for the Capitol cameras. “Shame. He always did love a good performance.”

Blight chuckled low. “Well, he looked like he’d seen a ghost when he caught sight of you. Or maybe a dream. Hard to say.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Because Blight knew you well enough to read the smallest shift in your jaw, the flicker of tension behind your eyes.

“He’s not gonna be your problem,” he added, more gently now. “Not unless you let him be.”

Nodding, you glanced up at the Capitol citizens. “I know he's not. He's smart. He wouldn't put us in any compromising positions. Drawing extra attention.”

Blight raised an eyebrow.

“Name. He looks about ready to jump into this carriage and make himself noticeable.”

“Ignore it,” you said under your breath, adjusting the fall of your costume. “We need them to believe it’s all dead and gone. Love stories don’t win wars. They win sponsors, which I've never even needed.”

Blight chuckled quietly, the sound lost beneath the cheering crowd. “No,” he said, “you haven't.”

You exhaled slowly, staring straight ahead as the chariots rolled forward. You wouldn’t give them a show. Not yet.

Not until it mattered.

Days passed. Training ensued.

It was what people wanted to see. The training room was where you revealed your skill, your tact. You were always the most interesting to watch. Your coldness, your ferocity when sparring, your wordlessness. This gained you sponsors. It also gained the Gamemakers' support.

You zipped your training suit up, tucking your braid into a bun. Then, you pushed through the doors of the facility.

It was less intimidating than it was the first time.

The training facility was large. Cold. Echoey. It was full to the brim with deadly weapons and survival scenarios, making it the ideal place to train a killer.

You already were one. But it always helped to brush up.

You'd learned quickly, through the experience you'd had and watching other tributes for years, that you couldn't rely on weapons. They were hard to find if you were looking for the special ones, the ones with the true advantage.

So, you trained in hand-to-hand and wielding knives.

It was muscle memory, by now. The way your fingers curled around the hilt of a blade. The way your feet shifted just slightly before a strike. You moved like someone who had nothing left to lose but everything to protect.

The rubber mat was cold beneath your boots as you stepped into the sparring circle. A boy from District 2 was already waiting -- broad-shouldered, cocky, and clearly amused by the sight of you. That amusement lasted about ten seconds.

The second the bell rang, you struck.

Fast, clean, efficient. You dodged the first swing and landed a quick blow to his ribs that knocked the air from his lungs. When he staggered, you hooked your leg behind his and sent him crashing to the floor. Then you knelt, knife at his throat, not even breathing hard.

You held it there just long enough to make your point, then dropped the blade beside him and walked off. Cold. Quiet. Controlled.

You were sweating. You sat on a mat on the floor, opening your water bottle and taking large sips. Heaving, you put it down and looked around, thinking. Strategizing.

You hadn't even seen him coming until he settled beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat down beside you like no time had passed. Like you hadn’t spent years apart. Like you hadn’t almost died thinking you might never see him again.

Finnick Odair.

Still golden, still carved from the sea and salt and charm that made the Capitol swoon. But there was something different now. Tired beneath the tan. Hollow under the easy smile he offered as he nudged your water bottle gently with two fingers.

“You always push too hard on the first day.”

You didn’t respond. Not at first. Your throat was tight, pulse thudding too loud in your ears to form words.

So he kept going.

“I saw the fight. That move at the end? Brutal. Clean.” A pause. “You’re even better than I remember.”

You turned your head slightly, eyeing him. “I had to be.”

He analyzed your face like he didn't want to forget it. Like you'd walk away and disappear for months again. His eyes were just like you remembered -- easy to fall in love with, easy to stare at. Like seaglass. Aquamarine.

“I was surprised you called to explain yourself. You know,” He said quietly. “After you left.”

Your breath caught -- not at his words, but at how gently he said them. Like he wasn’t accusing you. Just remembering.

“I owed you that,” you said after a beat, staring ahead. “You came home and I was gone. I didn’t want you to think I vanished without a reason.”

Finnick’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t interrupt. He just listened. But you didn't continue. You avoided the conversation like the plague every time it was brought up by anybody. Finnick had noticed that, like he noticed every single other thing about you.

In interviews, you declined to comment on your separation. In your televised interview with President Snow, you simply told the man it was a "mutual decision." Bullshit.

“Bullshit,” Finnick echoed under his breath, like he couldn’t help himself -- like the word had been sitting in his chest for years, and now it had finally clawed its way out. He hadn't meant for his thoughts to leave where they originated.

You glanced at him. Surprised. Not angry. Tired.

“What?”

Now that it was out, he couldn't go back on it.

“What you told Snow last month. It was bullshit.”

You stared at him, stunned into silence for a moment.

The fluorescent lights above hummed. Somewhere in the distance, someone grunted as a blade hit a target. But here, beside him, it was quiet. Still. The space between your bodies felt tight -- not in proximity, but in weight. In memory.

Your voice was thin when you finally answered. “You think I didn’t know that?”

Finnick shook his head, eyes still fixed on the floor. “I think you knew. I just don’t think you cared that I had to hear it like everyone else. That I had to sit in some Capitol suite, with Snow watching me watch you, and pretend it didn’t fucking hurt.”

The words hit hard. Not loud -- he wasn’t yelling. But they were worse that way. Softer. Realer.

Your jaw clenched.

“Finnick--”

“You haven't even divorced me. You're too much of a coward to make it official, but you're telling people on TV that it was a mutual, peaceful decision,” he continued. Letting it all out. Finally. “Why'd you lie, huh?”

His eyes were full of frustration now. Anger.

You met his gaze, feeling it like a knife pressed to your throat -- not fatal, but sharp enough to make breathing hard.

“I didn’t want them to know they broke us,” you said quietly. “I didn’t want to give them that. If I told the truth, it would’ve been a spectacle. They would’ve twisted it into a new love story, or a tragedy they could sell. Something shiny. Not something real.”

Finnick scoffed, shaking his head. “So instead you made me the villain? The distant husband. The Capitol’s whore who left you behind.”

Your eyes flared. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you didn’t disappear, Finnick.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” he snapped. “You think I wanted to be passed around like a prize? You think I liked being pulled from you every week to satisfy the Capitol’s idea of loyalty? I did what I had to, just like you did.”

You looked away. Your throat ached. “That’s exactly why I couldn’t talk about it.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, softer: “So you didn’t divorce me because you still loved me. But you lied because you were ashamed of how we ended.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“I needed to know if it meant anything to you,” he continued. “All those nights you stayed gone. All those months you didn’t call. But it's clear to me that I didn't mean a thing.” He hissed.

Something snapped in you. Glaring, you grabbed his hand in a tight grip, yanking him behind you. Out of the training facility. Out of the corridor. Into a lounge room, slamming the door and locking it.

Finnick barely had time to register what was happening before he was backed against the wall, your chest heaving, eyes alight with fury.

“Don’t you dare say you meant nothing to me,” you growled, your grip still firm around his wrist. “You think I went back to District Seven and lived some perfect life without you? You think I slept at night without waking up to the ghost of you in my bed? I burned for you, Finnick. Every damn day.”

His breath hitched, sea-glass eyes searching yours -- but you weren’t finished.

“You stopped writing. You stopped fighting. You let them rip us apart piece by piece, and I kept my mouth shut so they wouldn’t do worse. So they wouldn’t put a fucking target on your back. I lied because it was the only way I could protect what was left of us.”

Finnick was silent for a beat, lips parted, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes narrowed.

“So you're blaming me? You're blaming me for you leaving when things got hard?” He hissed.

You faltered.

He stepped forward, looking down at you with a heated gaze.

“You're just as frustrating as you have been forever. And just as stubborn.” He huffed, grabbing you by your waist. He quickly switched your positions, backing you into the wall instead, pressing you closely.

You gasped, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud, his chest flush against yours. The air between you sparked like flint to steel, searing and volatile.

“I fought for us,” Finnick growled, voice low and shaking. “I fought every way I knew how. But there’s only so much fighting a man can do when the woman he loves won’t even let him in.”

Your heart was pounding, fury and grief and longing all crashing together inside your chest. But you didn’t push him away. Couldn’t. Not when his hands were gripping your waist like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth. He was so close -- he smelled the same as he had when he was yours. His signature cologne, the faint smell of sea salt, and clean linen.

“Finnick--”

“No. It's your turn to listen. You're still my wife, you never sent me a damn thing saying otherwise. I never asked you to protect me. I never asked for you to save our reputations. All I asked for was you.” He said steadily, his nose almost touching yours.

Your breath hitched, the heat of his words igniting every nerve ending. You swallowed hard, caught between the ache of truth and the desperate want swirling in his eyes. He lifted a hand to grip your jaw, to force you to look into his eyes, to see how much he meant it.

His wedding ring glinted. He was still wearing it.

Your fingers trembled as they brushed lightly over the ring, tracing the smooth metal like it was a lifeline back to a past neither of you wanted to let go of -- but neither had dared fully hold onto either.

“You still..” You trailed off.

He nodded, his hot gaze still resting on your face.

“Of course I do. I'll wear it until the bitter end.”

Frustrated tears started to meet your eyes. You threw your head back, huffing.

“Why can't you just hate me like a normal person would, Finnick?”

“Because I don't want to. Because I can't. Because you belong with me,” he hummed. “And I won't pretend that you don't.”

His voice was velvet-wrapped steel -- soft, but unyielding. It rooted you in place. Unraveled you. Broke through every defense you’d rebuilt since the day you walked away.

You stared up at him, throat tight, lip trembling. “Finnick…”

But he didn’t give you space to run. Not this time.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with yours, as intimate as any kiss. “We were never done, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Your fear just tried to convince us we were.”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb.

“We’re in the Games again,” you murmured. “We could die.”

“Then I’ll die wearing your ring and loving you. And if we live,” he said, voice low and firm, “we fix it. For real this time.”

You opened your eyes. And he was right there waiting. Always had been. While your fear of abandonment consumed you, while you hurt him repeatedly, while you ran from him, he'd always been there. Waiting.

Instead of speaking, you leaned forward, giving into your desires. You kissed him.

It was like coming home after a long trip. It was like sinking into warm sheets after a sleepless night, like exhaling after years of holding your breath. His mouth met yours with the same ache, the same urgency -- not rushed, but hungry. Like he’d been starving for you.

Finnick’s hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you flush against him, like if he didn’t hold you close enough, he might lose you again. Your fingers found his jaw, your hand scraping softly against his stubble as your lips moved in tandem.

You broke the kiss only when air became necessary, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together, your hands still clutching each other like lifelines.

You weren’t done. You’d never been.

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