sabaceanbabe posted this on tumblr and I went "ha, that looks like Finnick got dosed, and Johanna has to take care of him" and since it's me and I love getting distracted by crying about Victors instead of doing actual work, I wrote a thing.
She whips around quick, because Finnick’s voice sounds strange, and he leans in towards her, pupils blown wide in the strobe lights. “Finnick?” she looks around, doesn’t see anyone with him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he says, leaning against her, and fuck, he’s heavy. “Just got done with—“ he waves his hand, vaguely. “Din’t wanna go back yet.” His eyebrows draw in. “Mags’n Annie’ll be asleep.” He looks so sad for a second she hopes he’s not going to start crying in the middle of the goddamn club.
“Finnick,” Johanna says again, careful. “What’d you take?” It’s not like Finnick doesn’t take club drugs once in a while, but—he wouldn’t get like this on purpose. Not unless things have gotten a lot worse than she knew.
He furrows his eyebrows. “I dunno,” he says, cocking his head to one side. “I think Philomena gave me something.”
Johanna bites down on a string of curses. “Okay, why don’t you come back to my place,” she says, because whatever it is, it’s leaving him stumbling and open-mouth stupid and there’s no way she’s leaving him here like this. But if she has to babysit, she’s not doing it here.
Finnick’s smile spreads across his face like he’s having to move one muscle at a time. “Yeah!” he says, “That’s a great idea.” He straightens a little, looking around like he can’t find the exits.
Johanna closes her eyes. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go.”
Johanna lights a cigarette on the way home, the special ones she got from Julius, because this is going to be way too annoying without that chemically assisted patience. She feels the tension leach out as her brain slows down, settles her arm around Finnick’s waist, and he hums. “Why’re you nice to me, Jo?” he asks, looking at her with unfair sincerity. “You’re not nice.”
Johanna smiles, takes a drag and blows smoke in his face, just to prove a point—she’s not sure what point, exactly, but whatever. “You are, though,” she says. “Dunno how, but you are.”
Finnick shakes his head vigorously enough he almost loses his balance. “‘M not,” he says. Looks away.
“You care about people,” Johanna doesn’t know why she’s pushing, other than she’s pretty sure he won’t remember this in the morning anyway so it’s like a free pass.
Finnick looks at her, trying to be serious. Doesn’t really work. “You do too,” he says, keeps his eyes locked on hers for a second before they’re sliding away, half-closed. “Me, at least,” he mumbles under his breath, so quiet Johanna almost misses it.
She draws hard on the cigarette, ember snapping and crackling, feels the smoke scorch her throat and burn in her lungs. Holds it as long as she can, holds it until it hurts, blows it out through her nose. Shuts up, because he’s right, damn him. Finnick cares about Annie, about Mags, even cares about the family he mostly doesn’t see, cares enough to do what he’s told and tear himself apart for them.
But he’s fucking right, and it’s fucking idiotic to care about people, asking for fucking trouble to care about Victors, the stupidest damn thing in the world to care about Finnick but here she is.
Finnick looks over and she realizes she said it out loud. Snaps her mouth closed, flicks ash off her cigarette, looks around like she’s trying to find a sign. As though she doesn’t know the way back to her hotel by now.
They get there a few minutes later, and Finnick’s practically asleep on his feet when she leads him past the check-in desk to the elevator. The clerk and the security guy exchange a knowing look, eyebrows raised, and Johanna rolls her eyes. Let them talk. Not like anyone ever shuts up about anything in this city.
She unlocks the door to her room, they walk in. Finnick doesn’t even look around before collapsing on the bed, curled in on himself and staring at the wall. Johanna pulls his shoes off, pulls hers off, digs around for a t-shirt and strips out of her dress. Finnick doesn’t even react, because why would he, until she pulls the T-shirt on and climbs into bed behind him. Then he whimpers, the tiniest sound, perfectly tuned to break her fucking heart, and curls in tighter.
“Finnick,” Johanna says, and he turns his head to look at her, big confused eyes. Fuck. “Finn, c’mon,” she says, climbing out of the bed and going around to the other side. “Scoot over and let me in, will you? I really don’t wanna sleep on the floor.”
He blinks a couple times, the confusion fading if not gone, rolls onto his back. “Sorry,” he says, voice a little closer to normal.
“’S fine,” Johanna says, climbing in next to him, curling up facing him. He reaches out, runs his fingers through her hair. She can’t help the sound that escapes, it feels so good. He scoots back, turns to face her, leaving a space between them his long arms easily bridge, keeps a hand on her head, scratching at her scalp. It’s relaxing except for how much she wants it, careful soothing touch, and she closes her eyes because she doesn’t know how to control her face.
It isn’t long before Finnick’s fingers stop, his hand pulls in toward him and his breathing slows. She opens her eyes and he’s sleeping, chest rising and falling, one hand pillowing his head, the other still stretched toward her.
Tears prickle in her eyes. She brushes them away, frustrated. Rearranges pillows, careful not to bother Finnick, and lets herself slide into restless sleep.