some scribbles for @lilalanor on her birthday
5 years post-war, Finnick lives AU. Finnick and Annie POVs, 100% trauma-recovery fluff, 0% plot of any kind. Accidentally got longer than I meant it to. sorrynotsorry
Somehow, Finnick still can’t shake the dreams.
It seems absurd, years after the war ended, lying in bed with his wife, to wake gasping out of nightmares more lurid than anything he could imagine awake. And yet-- here he is, trying to catch his breath as though he’d been running, feeling Annie’s hair tickling, sticking to his sweat-soaked skin, the warmth of her body beside him. And his throat closes. “It’s your wife, dipshit,” he mutters, but slides out of bed anyway.
He walks out onto the porch, where the wind off the water blows salt and the smell of the sea, reminding him: he’s home. He’s safe--actually safe, the war is over and the President is dead and Finnick will never have to go to the Capitol again.
Now if only knowing that actually fixed anything.
Finnick sighs, walks down the steps, across the sand to the water’s edge. Nights like this he’s found it’s better to keep moving. If he stays still his head will shift on him, slide into waters he doesn’t want to explore.
So he wades in, starts swimming. He doesn’t go far from the shore--it’s dark, nobody’s around, he’s not going to be too reckless. He has a wife and son waiting for him, he’s not trying to escape his life, just the anxious unsettled queasy feelings his brain decided to vomit up on him while he was sleeping and couldn’t stop it.
He swims along the shore, not really going anywhere until he realizes he's gone far enough that Johanna’s house is just behind the low ridge of dunes.
It’s late, but since he’s here he walks up the beach and sure enough, there’s a light on in her house. On the far side of the dunes the sound of the water is muted, the salt sea smell starts giving way to the smells of scruffy pine trees and woodsmoke.
Johanna’s house is the only one around here that faces away from the water. It still makes Finnick seethe, furious that for Johanna, the water is danger, not refuge. But mostly he's just glad she's still here.
Johanna’s sitting on the front stoop, hands wrapped around a mug, watching glowing embers in a ring of stones, remnants of a fire she’s let die down. She looks up when she hears his footsteps--wary, then relaxing when she sees Finnick.
“Hi Jo,” Finnick says, walking over.
“Hey,” she replies. “You couldn’t sleep either?”
Finnick shrugs one shoulder. Johanna slides over, making room for him to sit next to her on the step. She sips from the mug she’s holding, offers it.
Finnick knows her well enough to ask what’s in it before he drinks.
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Tea,” she says. Finnick waits. “And bourbon,” she adds.
Finnick takes the mug and sips at it. It’s not terrible. He hands the mug back.
Johanna takes it, turns it in her hands.
The embers crackle and pop, and they sit.
Johanna breaks the silence. “D’you think it’ll ever stop?”
Finnick raises an eyebrow, and she goes on. “It’s been five years. Your kid’s gone from a little grub to a running, talking, swimming... person. And we’re still sitting here in the middle of the night trying to dial down the crazy enough to at least pretend we’re functional humans.”
Finnick sighs, leans back on his hands and looks up at the sky, grey dawn light just starting to dim the stars. “I dunno,” he says.
Johanna runs a hand through her hair. “I hate it.” She sounds tired, still staring at the embers. “I'm just so fucking mad that we won and they’re still... in my head.”
Finnick sighs. He’s not sure he’s felt anything as uncomplicated as anger, not for a long time. But Johanna’s always been full of brittle edges, sharp enough to cut herself on but somehow clean. Honest. Finnick’s too used to softening himself, smoothing over any rough edges and blocking out any raw feelings that might show through his carefully built facades. Even now, even after, even when it's not a life-and-death struggle all the time.
Johanna sighs, sips at her drink.
“I don’t want it either,” Finnick finally says, feeling his way as though there are traps ahead. “I don’t-- I’m afraid I’ll get it on my kid.” He pauses. “Bad enough I’ve already dragged Annie into it.”
Johanna gives him a look like he’s the stupidest person she’s ever met. It's a familiar look. “Dragged Annie into it?” She shakes her head. “You couldn’t drag Annie anywhere she doesn’t want to go. Not even you are that charming.”
“Jo, I-- if I hadn’t been--”
She punches his shoulder, hard. “Finnick, you know I love you but you’re an idiot.”
Finnick glares up at her. Her hands are on her hips now, and she’s glaring at him. “I just want to protect them,” he tries, and even to him it sounds pretty weak, as arguments go.
“You don’t try to protect me,” Johanna says. It’s not an accusation, she’s as calm as Johanna can be.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? That’s why he’s down here instead of back at his house. Because Johanna’s always been the one who doesn't blink at his rough edges. She’s as fucked up as he is, and that’s neither insult nor compliment, just a comforting fact that... maybe shouldn’t feel like such a relief, but it does.
Johanna’s walking away again, pacing toward the fire.
“You already know how ugly I really am.” It comes out before Finnick can really think about it.
Johanna turns, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make a joke about his looks, just smiles in a toothy predator’s grin. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s why I like you.”
Now Finnick laughs--sharp, short, startled. “You’re crazy,” he says.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Johanna shoots back.
She looks around. The light has grown enough to see colors--green of trees and grass, smooth sand, Johanna’s deep brown eyes. “Annie’ll be up soon,” she says.
Finnick nods, stands up, glances toward his house. “I guess I should...”
“She knows you too, Finnick,” Johanna says. “She chose.”
One corner of Finnick’s mouth curls up. “And she’d kick my ass if I tried to deny it.”
“That too."
Finnick hesitates.
“Go on,” Johanna waves him off.
“Come over later?” Finnick asks.
Johanna glances toward her house. “Maybe.”
"Jo--" he waits until she meets his eyes. "Thanks."
She rolls her eyes and waves him away.
When Annie wakes up, she's alone. She closes her eyes, takes several long, deep breaths, and then stands up.
Finnick will come back.
Annie pulls a robe around herself, looks out the window. The sun is just up. It’s going to be a clear day.
She starts water heating for tea, picks some fruit out of the basket and starts chopping it up. Banana, an orange, a mango. All from District 4, thanks to the folks from 11 who’ve moved in, bringing the fruit trees with them. This is the first year they’ve had much fruit to sell, and Annie’s been surprised at how different the same food can taste when it’s brought from down-district rather than shipped across Panem.
Fruit, yogurt--still from District 10, nobody’s tried dairy here yet. Annie wonders if it’d be as different as the fruit. Yesterday’s bread, toasted, smoked fish on top.
The kettle sings out, and Annie pours the hot water into the teapot. That’s breakfast, then. Enough for all three of them.
Because Finnick is coming back.
Annie is setting things on the table when Rory wanders out of his room, hair mussed, eyes sleepy.
She puts down what she’s carrying and goes to hug him. “Good morning,” she says, brushing dark curls back from his forehead.
“G’morning mama,” he mumbles, then looks around. “Where’s papa?”
Annie smiles for him. “He went for a swim, he’ll be back soon.” Probably, she adds to herself. Rory doesn’t seem worried, just climbs up onto a chair. He stands on it to reach for the bowl of fruit, puts a big spoonful on his plate, takes a piece of bread. He kneels on his chair to eat, sitting back on his heels.
Annie’s bringing the teapot and three mismatched mugs when she sees Finnick climbing the stairs to the porch. He has that tired, in-turned look, shoulders hunched, head down. He’s in the same shorts he slept in, his hair’s the kind of damp that could mean he’d been swimming a while ago or could be just sweat.
He looks up then, sees her watching him. When their eyes meet, he smiles, just a little. The tension in his shoulders stays but he straightens, stops trying to make himself small.
Annie smiles back, then makes herself say “Rory, your papa’s back,” without letting her worry into her voice.
Rory looks up, grins, and hops down from his chair. By the time Finnick is opening the door, Rory is there to meet him, wrapping his arms around Finnick’s knees so Finnick has to reach for the doorframe for stability.
“G’morning Rory,” Finnick says, detaching Rory from around his legs and picking the kid up, settling him on his hip. “Did you eat all the breakfast already?”
Rory shakes his head, wriggles his way down to the floor. “There’s stinky fish, you can have all of that ‘cuz I don’t like it.”
Finnick looks up at Annie, then down at Rory, who’s pulling him toward the table with one hand. He sits.
Annie pours tea, fills her plate, tries not to watch Finnick too obviously as he argues good-naturedly with Rory about which fruit is the best. She adds her vote for mango to Rory’s.
Finnick shakes his head. “Oranges are way easier to eat, though.”
“Nuh-uh, not when mama chops them all up, then they’re the same.”
Finnick tries again. “Mango’s all slimy.”
“So?” Rory isn’t having it. “Mango’s best, it’s two against one, we win.”
Finnick smiles. “Okay, but you have mango all over your face, let’s go get you washed up for school.”
Rory jumps down and runs for the bathroom, Finnick following behind.
They walk Rory to school together. The walk back is quiet, until Annie asks, “Are you okay?”
Finnick takes a deep breath, blows it out. “Yeah. Bad dreams.”
“You know you can wake me up, right?”
“I know but I don’t want you to worry, I--”
Annie chuckles a little at that, rough and tight. “I worry either way.”
Finnick frowns, like he’s trying to think. They walk past the turn to their house and down to the water. When it’s lapping at their ankles, Finnick turns. “There’s all this... this shit in my head,” he says, so quietly Annie can barely hear him over the sound of the waves. “You’ve always been--you’re the one thing that’s clean. I don’t want to ruin that.”
He looks up at her. His eyes are wide, jaw tight. Annie doesn’t know what to say. “It’s not-- you’re not dirty, Finnick.”
He looks down at his feet, light and water painting patterns over them.
“I love you,” Annie says, and he glances up, wary. “All of you.”
And she’s long since learned to be careful when Finnick is off like this, but she can’t not: she steps in front of him, wraps her arms around his waist. Leans her head on his shoulder.
He doesn’t flinch, not today. Today, after a breath, he pulls her close. She looks up and he kisses her, light, without heat. “I love you, Annie Cresta” he says, his voice rough.
They stand there, in the water, under the hot sun, letting the waves rush past them. Finally Finnick steps back, takes Annie’s hand.
She holds on tight as they walk back along the beach, toward home.
![[sticky post]](https://l-stat.livejournal.net/img/icon_sticky.png?v=11043 "[sticky post]"){kind=icon}
lorata et al.'s canon divergence 'verse, so she wins the 71st and has Phillips (originally from Lorata's Avenger Games crossover AUs, remixed through my headcanon) as a mentor. Lyme semi-mentor-adopts her, she builds stuff with Wiress and Beetee, helps in the rebellion, and then moves in with Lyme in District Two. (AO3 series)
