fic: the war is over (and we are beginning) // the hunger games // johanna mason
written for this prompt at the hunger games drabble meme. though it probably isn't quite what you wanted/expected, sorry redbrunja !
the war is over (and we are beginning)
johanna (finnick, haymitch. implied finn/haymitch/johanna.)
pg; swearing, alcoholism; general hunger games sadness.
She doesn't remember their faces anymore.
She does not tell it like a tragedy; after a while, genre lines start to blur. This could be a comedy, after all.
(She is all out of proportion, these days. Seven-zero isn't the only one losing it.)
To be honest, she doesn't tell it at all. She doesn't really get out much. She isn't Finnick; she isn't the centre of the parties, weaving stories about dastardly deeds (and she knows Finn, knows how fucked up this makes him, knows what it is to turn off the part of your heart that says you should care). She can still feel it, the way it felt every time the life drained out of someone under her hands.
It's kind of sick: she remembers what it was like to kill them, all her tributes, but now they have all blurred into a mess of wide-eyed horror, the rictus all of them wore so similar as they died.
She dreams them all faceless, and wakes up screaming.
(This is not a comedy.)
--
Her name is Johanna Mason. She is not a child anymore; she has bandaged up all her bleeding open wounds. She is not falling apart.
Nevertheless, she pads down the hall, knocks on the door.
Haymitch doesn't sleep a lot, these days. He doesn't ask any questions; just lets her in, pours her a drink in an old chipped mug. This is how they work.
(She uses the term 'work' loosely; none of them are really functioning.)
She says, "I don't remember their faces anymore." The alcohol is burning down her throat. Her voice is high and thin with an edge of panic. "I don't remember any of them, they're all--"
She wonders when she started showing Haymitch Abernathy her throat, when she started thinking she had nothing to lose. Her hands are twisted around the mug. It says, long live the Capitol on its side, in bright red letters.
"We'll get them out of the archives," he says, calm, for Haymitch. His hands are for once steady; his eyes are gentle. He understands. "We'll find their faces. You'll remember when you see them."
She sucks in a shaky, stuttered breath. "Yeah," she says. She should have thought of that.
--
Here's the thing about Haymitch: he takes his role as unofficial leader of the unofficial enclave of Victors far too seriously; he thinks, for some reason, that it is his job to protect them. (She thinks it is a guilt complex. She is entirely sure she is right.)
This is why there is a key in the lock and Haymitch isn't moving, though Johanna is startling, and Finnick is slipping through the door, all seafoam eyes, wide and knowing. "Hey," he says.
"Fuck," she snaps, "Haymitch."
"I'm just here with the tapes," Finnick says, lightly, carefully, holding his hands up with a disk in the right one.
She almost throws a pillow at him but instead she just shifts over on the couch, making a little space for him.
He is warm against her side; in-between the two of them she almost (almost) feels safe.
--
When she closes her eyes she can see nothing but their faces. all twelve of them; all of them surprised, sad. Some of them screaming, some of them angry; all of them resigned.
Her face is buried in Finnick's shoulder. She remembers being stronger than this.
"Fuck," she says. She is so drunk and yet; this does not wash their faces from her mind. She was so young, she thinks. She was so young and small and fragile and she killed them like breathing.
He kisses her hair. (She was number sixty-six. This is how they met.) "Shh," he says. "We've got you."
--
In the morning she is hungover and tired; she wakes in Haymitch's bed, alone in his silk sheets.
She puts on one of his shirts; it falls to mid-thigh and smells like laundry powder, not vomit. She stumbles into his kitchen.
Finnick is scrambling eggs on Haymitch's gas element, which she didn't even know worked, but she wouldn't be surprised if he'd charmed it. "Morning, Sunshine," he says.
Haymitch puts a cup of coffee in front of her. "Sleep well?" he asks.
"How the fuck are you not hung over?" she asks, and takes a sip; it is hot and strong and most definitely spiked with whiskey.
"That's how," Haymitch says, grinning when she rolls her eyes.
Finnick's eggs finish. He slides them onto three plates, and sits down across from her.
"So here's the thing," he says, and then he tells her about the Mockingjay plan.
the war is over (and we are beginning)
johanna (finnick, haymitch. implied finn/haymitch/johanna.)
pg; swearing, alcoholism; general hunger games sadness.
She doesn't remember their faces anymore.
She does not tell it like a tragedy; after a while, genre lines start to blur. This could be a comedy, after all.
(She is all out of proportion, these days. Seven-zero isn't the only one losing it.)
To be honest, she doesn't tell it at all. She doesn't really get out much. She isn't Finnick; she isn't the centre of the parties, weaving stories about dastardly deeds (and she knows Finn, knows how fucked up this makes him, knows what it is to turn off the part of your heart that says you should care). She can still feel it, the way it felt every time the life drained out of someone under her hands.
It's kind of sick: she remembers what it was like to kill them, all her tributes, but now they have all blurred into a mess of wide-eyed horror, the rictus all of them wore so similar as they died.
She dreams them all faceless, and wakes up screaming.
(This is not a comedy.)
--
Her name is Johanna Mason. She is not a child anymore; she has bandaged up all her bleeding open wounds. She is not falling apart.
Nevertheless, she pads down the hall, knocks on the door.
Haymitch doesn't sleep a lot, these days. He doesn't ask any questions; just lets her in, pours her a drink in an old chipped mug. This is how they work.
(She uses the term 'work' loosely; none of them are really functioning.)
She says, "I don't remember their faces anymore." The alcohol is burning down her throat. Her voice is high and thin with an edge of panic. "I don't remember any of them, they're all--"
She wonders when she started showing Haymitch Abernathy her throat, when she started thinking she had nothing to lose. Her hands are twisted around the mug. It says, long live the Capitol on its side, in bright red letters.
"We'll get them out of the archives," he says, calm, for Haymitch. His hands are for once steady; his eyes are gentle. He understands. "We'll find their faces. You'll remember when you see them."
She sucks in a shaky, stuttered breath. "Yeah," she says. She should have thought of that.
--
Here's the thing about Haymitch: he takes his role as unofficial leader of the unofficial enclave of Victors far too seriously; he thinks, for some reason, that it is his job to protect them. (She thinks it is a guilt complex. She is entirely sure she is right.)
This is why there is a key in the lock and Haymitch isn't moving, though Johanna is startling, and Finnick is slipping through the door, all seafoam eyes, wide and knowing. "Hey," he says.
"Fuck," she snaps, "Haymitch."
"I'm just here with the tapes," Finnick says, lightly, carefully, holding his hands up with a disk in the right one.
She almost throws a pillow at him but instead she just shifts over on the couch, making a little space for him.
He is warm against her side; in-between the two of them she almost (almost) feels safe.
--
When she closes her eyes she can see nothing but their faces. all twelve of them; all of them surprised, sad. Some of them screaming, some of them angry; all of them resigned.
Her face is buried in Finnick's shoulder. She remembers being stronger than this.
"Fuck," she says. She is so drunk and yet; this does not wash their faces from her mind. She was so young, she thinks. She was so young and small and fragile and she killed them like breathing.
He kisses her hair. (She was number sixty-six. This is how they met.) "Shh," he says. "We've got you."
--
In the morning she is hungover and tired; she wakes in Haymitch's bed, alone in his silk sheets.
She puts on one of his shirts; it falls to mid-thigh and smells like laundry powder, not vomit. She stumbles into his kitchen.
Finnick is scrambling eggs on Haymitch's gas element, which she didn't even know worked, but she wouldn't be surprised if he'd charmed it. "Morning, Sunshine," he says.
Haymitch puts a cup of coffee in front of her. "Sleep well?" he asks.
"How the fuck are you not hung over?" she asks, and takes a sip; it is hot and strong and most definitely spiked with whiskey.
"That's how," Haymitch says, grinning when she rolls her eyes.
Finnick's eggs finish. He slides them onto three plates, and sits down across from her.
"So here's the thing," he says, and then he tells her about the Mockingjay plan.