Hunger Games fic: Never Get Used to It (pg-13 for language)
Title: Never Get Used to It
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 505
Beta: None (let me know if you see anything atrocious)
Characters: Finnick Odair, Johanna Mason, Haymitch Abernathy
Summary: You'd be surprised at what you can get used to, sweetheart.
Author's note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRAINTWIN! It's deathmallow's birthday, at least according to LJ, and I thought I'd write her a little ficlet featuring two of her favorite characters (and one of mine) to celebrate. Hope you have a great day, my friend, and that your packing is easy. ♥
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“Oh, crap!” Johanna looks over at Finnick, who is looking at the clock over the door. “I gotta go!” He pushes up and off the couch, sending her rolling into Haymitch, sitting on her other side with his feet propped up on a table.
“Down in front!” Blight calls from behind them; the couch is between where he sits playing cards with Brutus, and the television, currently showing their remaining District 7 tribute in a fight - probably not to the death - with the boy from District 1.
“Sorry!” Finnick tells him and crouches down in front of the couch, out of Blight’s line of sight.
“Where are you going?” Johanna asks.
“I have a ‘date.’” With another glance over his shoulder at the clock, Finnick continues, “Rafe is going to kill me. He wanted me for prep ten minutes ago.” Grinning, he half stands and kisses Johanna briefly on the mouth.
Without looking away from the TV, Haymitch announces, “If you kiss me, Odair, I’m gonna puke all over you.” He calmly downs half of the high octane contents of his glass as Johanna laughs and Finnick sighs dramatically.
“I keep telling you, Haymitch. You’re not my type.” He stands and, whistling, hurries out the door.
Johanna shakes her head. “I’ll never understand how he does that.” Haymitch glances at her, a question in his gray eyes. She never noticed until now just how long his lashes are, a dark frame around his eyes. If he’d lay off the liquor, his eyes would be as pretty as Finnick’s, she thinks, a little surprised. Before the pause ends up lasting too long, she clarifies, “Going off to fuck a stranger like it’s perfectly normal. Like there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Years of practice,” Haymitch tells her and she shudders, thinking about her last “date.”
“I’ll never get used to that.”
Haymitch raises one dark eyebrow. “You’d be surprised at what you can get used to, sweetheart.” He turns his attention back to the TV, takes another sip of his drink.
“Did you?” she asks him. “Get used to it?”
He doesn’t respond at all, at first, never turns away from the television. Eventually, he shrugs and then finishes off the rest of what’s in his glass. Leaning forward, he takes the bottle from the table and pours an inch or so into the glass. Settling back into the overstuffed leather, he hands the drink to Johanna. It’s only when she accepts it that she realizes he still has the half-full bottle in his hand.
Still not looking at her, Haymitch says, “You do what you have to do.” He takes a long pull from the bottle, eyes still fixed on the Games, on the boys from 7 and 1, hacking at each other with axe and sword. “‘Used to it’ or not don’t matter.” Johanna is pretty sure he’s seeing something entirely different. Another swallow of liquor and he glances at her again. “Best not to think about it at all, if you can manage that.”
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 505
Beta: None (let me know if you see anything atrocious)
Characters: Finnick Odair, Johanna Mason, Haymitch Abernathy
Summary: You'd be surprised at what you can get used to, sweetheart.
Author's note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRAINTWIN! It's deathmallow's birthday, at least according to LJ, and I thought I'd write her a little ficlet featuring two of her favorite characters (and one of mine) to celebrate. Hope you have a great day, my friend, and that your packing is easy. ♥
---------------------------
“Oh, crap!” Johanna looks over at Finnick, who is looking at the clock over the door. “I gotta go!” He pushes up and off the couch, sending her rolling into Haymitch, sitting on her other side with his feet propped up on a table.
“Down in front!” Blight calls from behind them; the couch is between where he sits playing cards with Brutus, and the television, currently showing their remaining District 7 tribute in a fight - probably not to the death - with the boy from District 1.
“Sorry!” Finnick tells him and crouches down in front of the couch, out of Blight’s line of sight.
“Where are you going?” Johanna asks.
“I have a ‘date.’” With another glance over his shoulder at the clock, Finnick continues, “Rafe is going to kill me. He wanted me for prep ten minutes ago.” Grinning, he half stands and kisses Johanna briefly on the mouth.
Without looking away from the TV, Haymitch announces, “If you kiss me, Odair, I’m gonna puke all over you.” He calmly downs half of the high octane contents of his glass as Johanna laughs and Finnick sighs dramatically.
“I keep telling you, Haymitch. You’re not my type.” He stands and, whistling, hurries out the door.
Johanna shakes her head. “I’ll never understand how he does that.” Haymitch glances at her, a question in his gray eyes. She never noticed until now just how long his lashes are, a dark frame around his eyes. If he’d lay off the liquor, his eyes would be as pretty as Finnick’s, she thinks, a little surprised. Before the pause ends up lasting too long, she clarifies, “Going off to fuck a stranger like it’s perfectly normal. Like there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Years of practice,” Haymitch tells her and she shudders, thinking about her last “date.”
“I’ll never get used to that.”
Haymitch raises one dark eyebrow. “You’d be surprised at what you can get used to, sweetheart.” He turns his attention back to the TV, takes another sip of his drink.
“Did you?” she asks him. “Get used to it?”
He doesn’t respond at all, at first, never turns away from the television. Eventually, he shrugs and then finishes off the rest of what’s in his glass. Leaning forward, he takes the bottle from the table and pours an inch or so into the glass. Settling back into the overstuffed leather, he hands the drink to Johanna. It’s only when she accepts it that she realizes he still has the half-full bottle in his hand.
Still not looking at her, Haymitch says, “You do what you have to do.” He takes a long pull from the bottle, eyes still fixed on the Games, on the boys from 7 and 1, hacking at each other with axe and sword. “‘Used to it’ or not don’t matter.” Johanna is pretty sure he’s seeing something entirely different. Another swallow of liquor and he glances at her again. “Best not to think about it at all, if you can manage that.”