Jabberjay Calls | Finnick Odair
Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Summary: You black out in the Quarter Quell — when you awaken, you believe you've killed your husband. The jabberjays don't help.
The next thing you knew, you were sprinting.
Your chest heaved with full, panicked breaths, each less relieving than the last. You ducked tree limbs, jumped over rocks, did anything you could to just keep running. You were confused. You were terrified.
A scent caught your nose. Metallic, one you'd smelled before. One you hadn't smelled since your Games. Since you'd last slit a throat.
Glancing down, you let out a gasp, almost loosing your footing.
Your hands were covered in a thick sheen of blood, shining in the light of dusk.
You stumbled to a halt, chest rising and falling as the world tilted beneath your feet. The blood was warm, sticky, too real. And it wasn’t yours.
“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling as the trees around you pressed in too close. “No, no, no—”
What the hell had you done? What had you done that was so bad you couldn't remember it?
Your legs gave out beneath you, knees slamming into the mossy forest floor as you stared at your stained hands. You didn’t remember what happened — and that was the worst part. Because in the arena, if you couldn’t remember, it meant you lost control. And losing control meant someone else had died.
A sob left your lips. Your breaths became more frantic, shorter, and not relieving at all. You felt like you couldn't get a single molecule of oxygen into your lungs.
“Finnick,” you choked, your voice breaking on his name.
The jabberjays heard it.
They swarmed.
Suddenly, the trees were echoing with his voice — agonized, screaming in pain. Your name on his lips. Begging. Crying. Screaming like his soul was being ripped out.
Your hands flew to your ears. “No! Stop it! It’s not real!”
But it was real, wasn’t it? You’d blacked out. You’d been covered in blood. You’d heard nothing from him since you'd come back to. You'd heard nothing from the one that was usually always by your side.
You curled up, sobs wracking from your body, until you felt it. The acidic feeling in your stomach, crawling up your throat. Leaning over, vomit sprayed from your lips. You choked and coughed as the jabberjays continued to wail, your husband screaming in despair.
Blood smeared onto your clothes and onto the ground as you tried to brace yourself. The smell of the blood unearthed another wave of vomit.
You collapsed forward on your hands, shaking so violently it felt like your bones might crack under the weight of your grief. The jabberjays were merciless. They repeated his voice like a broken record —twisting it, warping it. "Please! Don’t — Name — please don’t leave me!" His cry pierced the air like a knife through flesh. "It’s me! I love you!"
And you believed it. You believed every damn word.
Because why else would the blood be there? Why else would you be alone?
Your mind was spiraling, slipping into that abyss you hadn’t touched since your own Games. Since you’d thought survival meant severing yourself from humanity. But Finnick had stitched something soft into your heart again. Something real.
Now it was tearing apart.
You retched again — dry this time, your throat raw and lips trembling. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that. Minutes? Hours?
You looked up to the sky, a scream tearing through your throat. Hot tears flowed down your face.
You didn't even register the strong arms wrapping around your frame. The familiar scent. The quieting of the jabberjays as you were hauled off somewhere else.
You didn’t fight the arms pulling you in — maybe because part of you thought you were finally dying, and it was death cradling you. Maybe because it didn’t matter anymore.
But then — a voice. Not the high-pitched mimicry of the jabberjays. Not a hallucination.
A real voice.
“Hey. Hey, hey — breathe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Finnick.
You blinked, your vision swimming, unable to believe it until his thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away tears and blood and dirt like he was afraid you’d shatter.
"I hurt you—" You sobbed frantically, looking down at your hands. "Blood, there's blood—"
“Honey, no, no, hey — look at me.” Finnick cupped your face in both hands, gently but firmly pulling your gaze back to his. His eyes —those sea glass eyes — were wide, desperate, but whole. “You didn’t hurt me. Not a scratch, okay? This isn’t my blood.”
You shook your head, breath hitching, but he didn’t let you slip away again.
“I swear it,” he said, his voice trembling now, cracking like a wave against rocks. “You blacked out for maybe two minutes. You bolted into the trees. I ran after you. I never stopped.”
Your hands hovered uselessly between your bodies, stained and trembling. “Then whose blood is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “There were mutts in the area. Could be one of them. Could be one of the other tributes who didn’t make it out in time. But it’s not yours, and it’s not mine.”
“I thought I killed you,” you whispered, eyes welling again. “And the birds — they used your voice. They knew what it would do to me.”
Finnick’s expression crumpled for a brief, unbearable moment before he pulled you in, arms wrapping tight like he could protect you from everything if he just held hard enough.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I should’ve gotten to you sooner.”
Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, still trembling, still unsure if any of this was real. But he was solid. He was warm. His heartbeat thrummed steadily against your ear, proof of life.
“I couldn’t hear you,” you whispered, voice wrecked and thin. “I kept calling, but I couldn’t find you. I thought — God, Finnick, I thought—”
“I know,” he said, breaking a little with every word. “I know. I was calling for you too.”
You felt his hand slide up your back, anchoring you, grounding you. He didn’t try to rush you or pull away. He just held you, like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together.
The jabberjays were gone now. The screams had faded. All that was left was the humid quiet of the jungle and your ragged breathing as you clung to him.
You began to cry again. To sob. You didn't know why. Fear. Relief. You clutched the material of Finnick's suit.
"Shh, baby. I've got you." He cooed, pulling you impossibly closer.
He rocked you gently, as if you were something fragile — and maybe you were. Maybe the Games had finally cracked you down the center, and only Finnick’s arms were keeping you from breaking apart completely.
“It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair, over and over. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You wept into his shoulder until your throat burned and your fingers ached from how tightly you were holding on. It was primal, wordless. A grief too big for language, a terror too deep for sense. But Finnick never let go.
Eventually, the sobs quieted into hiccups, then shaky breaths. You were still trembling, your whole body aching with exhaustion, but the panic had dulled — replaced now by the awful throb of aftermath.
Finnick pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering. “Let’s get out of here, alright? Let me clean you up.”
You nodded against him, too tired to speak.
He helped you to your feet like you weighed nothing, like he’d carry you if you asked. You didn’t have the strength to argue.
And as he guided you through the trees, his hand in yours, you realized something that terrified and comforted you all at once:
You would do anything to keep him alive. Even if it meant breaking yourself open all over again.
The walk was quiet.
Finnick kept his hand clasped with yours the entire way, thumb stroking the back of your fingers like he needed to remind himself you were still here. Occasionally, he’d glance over, watching you like you might vanish again — like if he looked away for too long, the jungle might swallow you whole.
Eventually, the trees broke into a clearing, revealing a small stream winding through mossy rocks. The water sparkled in the early evening light, soft and cold-looking, untouched by blood or nightmares.
“Here,” Finnick murmured. “Sit.”
You obeyed, letting him guide you to a flat stone by the edge of the water. Your hands were still shaking, your body humming with fatigue, but Finnick was steady. Solid.
He knelt beside you, pulling a small packet from his belt — standard Games-issued medical gear. But in his hands, even something as impersonal as gauze looked like an act of love.
“Let me see,” he said softly, and you gave him your hands.
He dipped a cloth in the cold stream and began gently wiping the blood from your skin. He didn’t flinch at the stains, didn’t comment on the cuts or bruises blooming along your arms from your frantic run through the trees. He just worked in silence, careful and slow, like he was afraid of hurting you further.
The cold made you hiss a little, and Finnick looked up instantly, his brows pulling together. “Sorry. I’ll be quick.”
“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Doesn’t hurt as much now.”
He smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scared myself,” you admitted, voice barely audible.
Once your hands were clean, he dried them gently and started wrapping a few fingers with gauze, where the skin had torn. His hands were warm, sure. So careful.
“You’re still shaking,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles. “Want to sit back? I’ll do your face next.”
You let him maneuver you like a doll, leaning against a mossy boulder while he soaked another cloth. This time, when he touched your face, you didn’t flinch — not even when the water traced over scrapes or when his fingers ghosted beneath your jaw.
“Better?” he asked when he was done, voice low.
You nodded, watching him with wide, wet eyes.
He reached out, brushing a thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away the last streak of blood you hadn’t noticed.
Finnick didn’t speak. He just leaned in.
His kiss was soft — impossibly soft for someone who’d seen so much war and horror. His mouth tasted like saltwater and something sweeter, like a promise. He kissed you like he was trying to stitch all your broken pieces together again. Like if he loved you hard enough, the Games couldn’t touch you anymore.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
"You're so beautiful. So strong, yeah? The strongest woman I know." He said softly, a gentle smile on his face.
Your breath caught, tears stinging your eyes again — but not from fear this time. From the sheer weight of his tenderness.
You shook your head slowly, voice cracking. “I don’t feel strong.”
Finnick leaned in, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “That’s the thing about strength,” he whispered. “It’s not about never breaking. It’s about surviving even when you do.”
You blinked at him, lips parted slightly, as if trying to memorize the shape of every word. Every look.
“And you,” he continued, pressing his forehead to yours again, “you survive. Even when the world tries to rip you apart.”
His hand found yours again, fingers threading through like it was second nature.
"I love you." You said, a tear slipping down your face. Through the blurry layer of your tears, you spotted the glint of Finnick's wedding ring. You gently stroked it with a finger.
Finnick looked down as your finger traced the silver band around his finger, the symbol of a promise made long before this nightmare began. His lips trembled with something that looked like awe, like reverence, like he couldn’t believe someone as shattered and beautiful as you had ever chosen him.
He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender.
“I wear this because you’re my home, you're the best choice I've ever made,” he murmured against your skin. “Even in here. Especially in here. I love you more than words could ever tell you.”
You let out a soft, broken sound — not quite a sob, not quite a laugh — and leaned forward until your forehead was tucked beneath his chin, letting the steady beat of his heart calm the shaking inside you.
“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered. “I thought the Capitol had finally taken everything.”
Finnick wrapped his arms around you again, holding you like a man clinging to the last piece of light in the world.
“They can’t have you,” he said, voice fierce and low in your ear. “They’ll never take you from me.”
You stayed there for a long time — just the two of you, curled together by the water as the sun dipped lower and the jungle quieted around you. For now, you were safe. For now, the blood had dried, the voices had gone silent, and you had each other.
And somehow, that was enough.
