There are a lot of things that Finnick could say: that he's watched enough people and had enough conversations that he's getting a feel for the people here and how different they are from the initial assumptions he'd made; that he'd had enough favors done for him without any apparent expectation of the repayment that would have been expected in the Capitol; that he'd been prepared to kill just about anyone when he first arrived and now he's further from the role he'd been playing in the arena of the defender of the rebels' hoped-for symbol. But it's really neither as simple nor as complicated as any of those things.

He'd trusted Annie. And she'd trusted this place. And she'd trusted Bucky, and Bucky had been kind and generous to her just like he had to Finnick. To Finnick, that's what matters. That's why he'd sought him out, more than to return the knife.

Finnick has gotten used to expecting the way people in the Capitol treat him. What he's never come to terms with is the things people say about Annie, and the way they think they can dismiss her. Bucky hadn't. Bucky, according to Annie, had been helpful and kind, even though she'd been wary and nervous.

"Since you're offering," he says, easily, and slips onto a seat.

"I'd have said you already did more than the least you could do," he says, smiling in a way that's not entirely friendly nor entirely sarcastic. Knowing, perhaps.