He did his best to stay away, truly he did, but he found himself on the paves before the Fox and Face only two days after his meeting with Daniel Cresta. Finnick told himself it was nothing more than habit, and one that would be easily broken at that, but it was raining and he longed to get out of the cold, so he stepped inside. Some part of him was surprised to see that it hadn't changed. The same long wooden tables sat in the main room, as clean and polished as they were at the beginning of every night. As always, he could hear female voices from the back room, and Violet looked harried as ever as she hurried out of the kitchen area. "If that man doesn't show up one more time, I'll – oh. What are you doing here?" she asked.

Finnick had no answer to that.

"Well, you're early, but I suppose you always are, aren't you? If you don't mind me putting you to work, we still have a few mugs left to wash."

"Of course. I'd be happy to help." He had nothing to gain by being kind to Violet Jennings, not anymore, but that made the gesture feel all the more freeing.

A few turned out to be several dozen. He supposed that shouldn't be too surprising, for the Fox and Face fit well over a hundred people. Multiply that by the three, four, and often more mugs that each individual would go through in a night, one would end up with rather a lot of cleaning to do before the next night could begin. He nodded towards Johanna, already hard at work, rolled up his sleeves, and dunked the first of the many, many mugs into the soapy water.

"Don't think you're going to walk out on me without paying first."

From his position at the washbasin, Finnick couldn't make out the man's reply, but he had overheard enough of these conversations to know approximately what it would be. They all made some excuse, often that it had been a mistake, and he hadn't remembered to take the money out of his pocket, or he thought his friend had paid for both of their drinks earlier. Then Violet or Johanna, with Brutus behind them on those occasions that he chose to show up, would threaten to get the police involved, and the man would invariably find the money before being sent on his way.

After nearly two hours standing in the same position, doing his best to keep up with the steady stream of dirty mugs and failing all the same, he felt he deserved a few minutes to himself. And what better way to spend them than watching Violet rip into some cheap bastard that had tried to cheat her? He toweled off his hands on a rag and headed for the main room.

By the time he arrived, the argument had evolved into a shouting match. Violet gestured wildly as she hurled insults at the man, and several in the crowd had edged away from her in order to not be struck by a stray hand or elbow. Were he on the receiving end of such a tirade, Finnick would have crawled away from the scene like a scorned puppy, but this man seemed determined to give as good as he got. His cheeks were red, though from drink or anger Finnick knew not, and the mugs as he slammed his fist down onto the tabletop. "I won't have you treating me like a thief!" he shouted, his words slurred. He would definitely be

"This is my place, and I make the rules. If I call you a thief, it's because you're trying to make off with my money, and I won't tolerate that under this roof."

The man, late in his thirties, thinning blond hair, and a good hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, took a threatening step towards her. "I'm not a thief!" Finnick grabbed his arm, stopping him before he could hit Violet, but he took a punch below the eye for his trouble. Even as his vision dissolved into stars, he held tightly onto the man. He wasn't getting an inch closer to Violet or the other patrons, not if Finnick could stop it. And while the man might have had surprise on his side, Finnick towered half a foot above his head and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. He might not have fought much over the years, for Clodagh and Mags had put an end to that behavior before it could fully begin, but years spent on the boats had made him strong. It was not long before he had the other man subdued, pinned against his chest.

"We're going outside," he hissed at the drunk. Finnick's vision returned to watch him nod stiffly, too stiffly, and his eyes traveled down to see the knife being held only a hair's width from the man's neck.

"No need for that," the man pleaded as he tried to grab for the knife, making Finnick take hold of his other arm as well.

Haymitch, the drunk Finnick had seen spend so many nights at the Fox and Face, did not lower his blade. "Seems that way to me, Rourick." He gestured towards the door. "Lead the way, kid."

The night air was cool and as sweet as it ever got in this part of the city. Only a few souls were out at this hour, most of the traffic on this street having been drawn like moths to a lantern to the Fox and Face. The one individual they passed, a small, feeble old man Finnick had seen many times before, always out on the streets alone, said nothing to them, instead curling himself further into the doorway and pretend he saw nothing. An uncomfortable lump grew in Finnick's throat, but he kept his grip on Rourick until they were several buildings away from the pub. Haymitch followed close behind, his knife never straying more than an inch or two away from the other man's throat. "All right, that's far enough," Finnick said once he could no longer see the Fox and Face over his shoulder. Rourick rubbed his arm and glared at Finnick and Haymitch. "Go on, get out of here," Finnick prompted. "I don't want to see you in there again, or I'll give you worse than a sore wrist. I'll promise you that, I will."

He wasn't going to repeat himself, and he didn't have to. Rourick scampered away into the shadows, and even he faded into nothing more than a somewhat darker silhouette on a canvas of black, Finnick still heard rapid footsteps.

"Good job back there," Haymitch said.

"Thank you."

"Violet's a good lady, and she needs someone like you around. That Brutus of hers, well, he's a good piece of hired muscle when he's around, but you can never trust him to be there when he's needed. What do you say to taking over for him?"

"I think that offer would have to come from Ms. Jennings, and I don't think it's one that's likely to be made."

"You'd be surprised, then." They had been headed back inside, but Haymitch stopped him just outside the pub's entrance. "Let's say she did offer you work. Would you take it?"

Finnick thought about it for a moment. He couldn't say yes, but it definitely wasn't out of the realm of possibility. "I would consider it."

Haymitch shot him a lopsided grin. "I'll have a talk with Violet tonight about it. Can't promise anything, and she won't pay you half of what you're worth, but I'd encourage you to take it." He glanced around, then leaned in closer. "And, between you and me, if anyone tries to take a swing at Violet like that fellow did, I'll pay you a dime for every bone of his you break."

"Who hit you?" asked Mary from her perch on his lap. She had assumed an odd position, her elbow digging ever so slightly into the soft flesh of his belly, but Finnick didn't ask her to move. Being here, in Clodagh's cramped kitchen that always smelled of fresh bread with his niece on his lap made the world feel safe, calm, and as it should be. Lord knew there wasn't enough of that in the world these days.

"A bad man." He winced as Clodagh gently traced the cut below his eye with her finger. Violet had wiped the wound clean and done her best to bandage it the night before, but Clodagh had the magic touch. He couldn't begin to count the bruises, cuts, and sprains she had patched up for him and his brothers over the years, but yet, none of them had a single scar to show for them.

"Well, he certainly did a good job of it," his sister said. "If you're going to get into fights, you at least ought to pick someone you can win against."

There was some wisdom to that statement, that he had to concede. But Finnick couldn't ignore the insult his older sister had tossed in there as well. "You're assuming I didn't win, but you haven't seen the other fellow. He could be in far worse shape for all you know."

"Finnick, please, not in front of Mary."

"But I want to hear what happened!" the girl protested.

Laughing, Finnick gathered his niece up in his arms and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "I'll tell you when you're older." And if he was lucky, he could drag out the same excuse until she forgot they had this conversation.

"Mary, will you please find me my white thread? I let Mrs. Donnelly from downstairs borrow it yesterday, but I think Finnick might need stitches." He winced at Clodagh's words. It was bad enough to have to wear a bandage for a few days, but stitches would be far worse. He hated even the thought of the needle biting through his skin again and again.

"Finnick, I need to move." He loosened his grip, allowing Mary to wiggle off his lap and hurry downstairs to pester Mrs. Donnelly.

Clodagh waited until her daughter was well out of earshot to lay into him. "Finnick O'Daire, I swear to all that's good, if her father gave you that, I'm going to –"

"It wasn't," he assured her. She rose an eyebrow at that. "It's true! I promise, I conduct myself like an absolute gentleman. Anyways, I haven't seen Miss Cresta or her parents in a few days, and you know this" – he pointed towards his cut – "is fresh. It was just one of the bar toughs, Clodagh, I swear, and it won't happen again." When he was younger, he had thought that the moment he turned sixteen, or eighteen, or twenty-one, that he would miraculously be freed from judgement by his older sister. It hadn't happened yet, and Finnick didn't foresee Clodagh relinquishing those last remnants of her control over him anytime soon. "Do I need stitches?" he asked, meek as could be.

She shook her head. "No, I just didn't want Mary to hear that." He gave her a relieved smile, which she cut short with a frown. "But mind you, that can change if I hear that you've been causing trouble."

"I'm always the perfect gentleman."

"And if you aren't, you don't want to know what's coming to you," she threatened. Her smile returned the instant the door opened, signaling Mary's return. "Thank you, dear, but I took another look at Uncle Finnick's cut, and it doesn't look like he's going to need stitches after all. Isn't that rather nice?"

His back ached from his time out on the boats, but he had several hours of standing ahead of him yet. It was a godsend. The walk from the docks to the Fox and Face gave him time to think, and it had not taken Finnick long to realize that thinking led nowhere good. He was a haunted man, a shadow always cast upon him, but in those moments where he was beyond busy, driven so hard that he could think of nothing but the work before him, he could escape her face. Perhaps that was what Annie's father had spoken of when he had told Finnick to forget his daughter. Not to forget, never to truly forget, but to work himself so hard every waking moment that he became numb, had no mind or heart left to think about what would never be.

But real success required a smile, and he did his best to paste one over his features as he neared the pub. "Good evening," he called as he stepped into the pub. To his own ears, the words sounded dull and flat.

"Finnick! You must have a look at this!" Violet moved faster than he thought a woman of her size capable of, knocking into him with enough force that he was nearly sent keeling backwards into the street. Finnick caught himself just in time. Before he had fully regained his balance, Violet was forcing a letter into his hands. "Read it. It's from Annie."

From Annie. Suddenly, that piece of paper, cheap and rough as it was, became as valuable as all the sultan's gold. He smoothed out its wrinkled surface before tracing his name in her script with his thumb. "Go on, open it," Violet prodded him, and with a nod, he turned over the envelope. Though it had once been sealed shut with red wax, the seal had been broken, and he knew that Violet had already read its contents. The letter itself had been written on the back of a ledger sheet, the paper so thin that the lines on the other side sliced through her writing like the bars of a cell door. He smiled at the thought of Annie sneaking it from her father's shop in order to write to him.

Dearest Finnick,

I pray this letter finds you well. My father told me of your meeting with him. I beg that you understand this separation is in no way due to any change in my impressions of or feelings for you, but rather my family's belief that Irish and American blood should not mix. I do not share this conviction, and from our many conversations, I believe you do not either.

My parents will not compromise on their position, but I think of you day and night. I have tried before to wait out these feelings, but I know they will not fade. It is a physical pain to think that I might never see you again. I once believed I would never wish any pain upon you, but I now find myself praying that you feel the same. And it is on this prayer that I write this letter, though it strays far from convention or propriety to do so.

I propose that we marry. My parents will not stand in the way of the law and God to keep us apart. Though I would of course prefer it, there is no legal requirement that my father agree to a union between us, and if we marry without first alerting my parents, there is nothing they can do to stop us. I realize that such an action will require more correspondence between us, and I believe that Georgia and Aunt Violet will be willing to deliver our letters.

Please, do not reject this offer on my account alone. I understand the consequences of these actions, the wrath it will induce from my parents, the scorn we will be met with from all sides once they hear of our union. I know what we will be met with, and I am willing to accept it all in exchange for a lifetime by your side. It is my sincerely held belief that you will make an excellent husband, and should you accept my proposal, I shall strive every day to be an excellent wife.

Yours fondly,

Annette Cresta

His grin spread as he read, but even after he finished, Finnick could only stare at the page, dumbfounded and happy as any man had ever been. "What did he say?" said a voice from the other room, so much like Annie's that it made his heart twinge.

"Oh, leave the poor man alone, Georgia," Johanna scolded.

When he said nothing, Violet prodded him. "Do you need a moment alone, dear?"

Something about those words forced him back to the Fox and Face, to the realities before him. And for once, those realities were something he would gladly face, a friendly challenge rather than a gauntlet filled with horrors. "Yes, excuse me, no, I'm fine. Could I please have a piece of paper?" he asked.

She beamed at him as she pulled two pieces of paper and an envelope from her apron pocket.