[There are a lot of things he could tell her, really. That's not the question; in Finnick's life, "could" is never the question. It's always either "should" or "will". Subtle a difference as it might seem, it's a significant one nonetheless.

Still, he feels as though--

For Katniss (anguished, brightly-burning Katniss, for whom he's experienced a glittering kaleidoscope of emotions over the time he's known her, who he knows now is being used and made a tool the same way that all the Victors are, the way he once was but is never going to be again), maybe there are words he owes her. Maybe he and all his pretty turns of phrase can find the right ones.

He starts them walking, jaunty and brisk, like two old friends out for a stroll. Maybe that's what they are. Maybe.]

I used to work at this place, you know. I couldn't bake my way out of a tackle bag, but I could lift the sacks of flour and stuff. After awhile the baker figured out he could make a fortune if he let me work the counter and convince all the customers to buy more than they intended to, instead.

[It's a fond memory, and there's an unspoken laugh riding beneath the words. Weren't those the days, he thinks.]

Would you believe me if I told you it works out in the end, Katniss?