When Finnick wakes up, he can tell it’s going to be a bad day.

He wiggles his toes just to see if he can, wanting to gauge just how bad it'll be. When all nine move with no more difficulties than usual, Finnick hums. No chair today. The sheets next to him are empty and cold, so no waking up beside you either, but he can smell food and knows you're not gone. Only cooking breakfast.

What's so wrong about today?

There's a fog behind his eyes that he can't blink away. A heaviness to his thoughts that he isn't confident is just from leftover sleep.  Pushing himself up onto his elbows with a grunt, Finnick stops, certain for a moment that he's still dreaming because...

There's a little girl at the bedroom door. A head full of curls and big, big eyes greet him before she does. In fact, she doesn’t greet him at all, staring at him with her thumb in her mouth. The urge to tell her to stop comes and goes too fast for him to wonder why.

"...Hi," he croaks. She lifts her free hand, chubby little fingers opening and closing in a wave before it goes back to tugging at her ear. "Um..."

He stares at her and tries to understand why there's a little girl in his home. Did she wander in through the front door?

"Are you lost—"

"Do you know me today?" It's the first and only thing she asks him and it feels like he joined a conversation halfway through. Today? Not just in general but today specifically?

It seems like Finnick's the one that's lost.

"I...No." He says because it's nearly impossible to lie to those eyes. "Do...do you know me?" He’s more confused than nervous and more curious than confused. She nods and that much feels right, even if nothing else does.

She doesn’t wait for him to invite her, just toddles into the room. And when she struggles to climb onto the bed, he doesn’t even have to think about helping her up. She settles on his lap, nuzzling into his bare chest. And though it shouldn't be, it's second nature to tuck her close.

"What's your name?" He mumbles into her hair, leaning back onto the wall. The coolness against his skin helps soothe the throbbing in his back and in his mind. The name she mumbles out around her thumb is slurred and muffled, not just from the telltale sign of missing baby teeth, but because all sound seems to be taking its sweet time finding its way into Finnick’s ears. Despite that, it sends a pang through his chest.

He remembers being fourteen and her's being the first face he wanted to see after being airlifted out of his games. He remembers being sixteen, seventeen, eighteen and her knowing well before him that his heart was no longer his own. He remembers being twenty-three and screaming her name in the arena as she walked to her death with shaking hands and open arms.

"Let me guess. Do I call you...Maggie?" She shakes her head. "No? What do I call you then, honey?"

"Moonie."

He laughs at the serious look on her face, so much like yours, and that makes sense, too. "Moonie? My moon and star, huh." She nods, moves from playing with her ear to playing with his. "And what do you call me?"

"Papa!"

"...oh." And that, he supposes, makes sense too, even if he can't remember it. He picks up her teeny tiny foot, the same one he felt kicking against his hand only yesterday. And her teeny tiny elbow, the one you swore was digging into your bladder a week ago. And this weight on his lap, the same one he's come behind you and lifted once you hit your third trimester. "I'm sorry."

"'S okay. Mama says you can't help it sometimes. ‘S just a bad day."

"Yeah..." He rocks them back and forth, chin resting on the top of his little girl's head. He can hear you humming in the kitchen, water running as you work. Finnick's girls, his whole world, even if it's a bit foggy right now. "Do I have them a lot...Do I, do I forget you a lot?"

Mags hums, thinking as hard as a child her age can, which turns out to be pretty hard. "A little. But you remember me a whole lot, and mama says nothing's broken that you can't fix with pa...patch—"

"Patience." Finnick smiles, eyes squeezed too tight to let anything out. "Your mama is very smart."

"Mhm. You say she's the most smartest in the whole universe."

"Do I? That does sound like me." 

She pats his hand much like her namesake, comforting him in a way she had to have learned, but he can’t put his finger on from who. "Just a bad day, not a bad papa."

He huffs a breath, brows scrunching to stop the oncoming flood and it's the closest it's ever been to capsizing him.

“Do you wanna know something?” She hums sleepily against his chest, already nodding off again. He’s surprised she’s even up this early, but something tells him she sleeps in here often. “Your papa’s the most luckiest man in the whole universe.” No doubt about it, even if he can't remember just how lucky. This, here and now, is proof enough. 

Mags laughs at this, and that's entirely you there, and it's almost like he can see what you must have looked like at this age. Sure, that's Finnick’s chin, and those are his freckles. But not the sad eyes he inherited from his mother, and not that smile either. He imagines you got away with whatever you wanted, no one strong enough to stay upset with you for long. Finnick finds himself laughing along with her.

“What's so funny, little miss? You don't believe me?” He tickles her, and she squirms away, her giggles piercing him right in the chest like a harpoon.

“I do, I do! But you say that all the time, too. Even when you remember.”

It should be a comfort knowing that even now, he's still the same man. It's not. He's jealous of that man. Of this Finnick Odair that gets to remember, that gets to be a papa to Mags and a husband to you, of the Finnick that gets to stay.

He doesn’t ask her how old she is, doesn’t wanna know how many years he's lost—will continue to lose if this is the pattern he thinks it is. Doesn't wanna know who her first steps were towards, her first time swimming, if she was an easy baby or not. He doesn’t wanna know if you're happy with him like this, happy to get bits and pieces one moment and the whole cake another. Happy to parent with someone who starts from square one from time to time. 

Besides, despite her clearly being very mature for her age, Mags wouldn't be able to answer any of that. Those are questions he'll have to work up the nerve to ask you later on, clinging to you with shaking shoulders and tear-stained apologies that you won't accept because there's nothing to be sorry for.

And that's if this version of him will even still exist by the time he makes his way to you. 

Yeah, Finnick would much rather focus on what he has, what he's gained between then and now. The life he's been allowed to live despite the fact that he should have died many times over. The one he fought for, that you fought for. So many had to die for Finnick to get this moment of peace with his daughter in his arms and his wife's sweet voice humming in his ear. Who cares how that peace looks?

He is curious, though. What parenting looks like in this post-Hunger Games world.

“What do you wanna be when you grow up, Moonie?” And she will grow up. There will be no guillotine hanging over her neck, likely to fall if luck isn't on her side. 

“Happy! But I'm already happy. Uh,” she thinks for a bit. Has he never asked her this before? He feels a bit of pride at that. That he's not just stuck in an infinite loop, that his fate isn't preordained. That he's not completely a husk. “I wanna be,” she draws out, “in love! Like you and mama.”

“...oh. That's a…that's a really good one, honey. Really good. And you will be. You will.” His voice cracks, noticeable enough that even a child picks up on it—his child.

She takes his face between her two little hands, and he knows it’s all scrunched up like it gets when he cries, knows the wrinkles have formed in his forehead and knows his chin is quivering like he has frostbite.

“Let's go find Mama.” She says and Finnick nods because the urge to see you is only rivaled by the urge to cry. He stands up with a grunt, putting her on his hip. Together, they shuffle out of the room, following the smell of honey biscuits and bacon.

“You wanna know my favorite color?” She asks him suddenly and he needs to know. Not only to drown out the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears, not just to distract from the cotton stuffed in his brain or the fact that he can remember the name of every person that’s ever bought him but not his own damn daughter. But because he should already know something as simple as his baby girl’s favorite color.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Please.”

“Yesterday, it was purple like the flowers titi Kat sent me. The Bimroses.”

“...Primrose?” 

“That’s what I said!”

“Right.”

“Today, it’s,” her tongue sticks out as she thinks, “brown-yellow! Like your hair, papa.” She pulls on a strand as if to remind him of the color. He snorts despite the pressure behind his eyes. Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll remember to teach her the word blond.

They turn a corner and there you are, kneading dough, in all your glory.

At the sound of wood creaking under their collective weight, you throw out, “Morning baby,” over your shoulder.

Mags greets you back with, “Morning, Mama!” Finnick, however, can’t get his lips to move, his throat refusing to unstick.

You turn and correct yourself with a slight frown. “Well, good morning, babies… Margaret Thalassa Odair, didn't I just tuck you back in?”

“Not tired,” she whines, clinging to Finnick. As if she hadn’t nearly passed out on his chest a few minutes ago. But he can't focus on that, not when…when…

“...Thalassa?” It’s a wisp of sound, breathed out like the breeze winding through crashing waves.

It was a tradition here in Four to take the name of a loved one and gift it as a middle name to your child. The idea had been eating at him relentlessly, his ghost of a mother, haunting him more in death than she ever did in life. There was a bet; you swore that it was a boy, but Finnick could feel in his bones that it was a girl. Whoever was right got to name them, and the loser would name the next kid. Despite that, he hadn’t worked up the courage to tell you. Hadn’t even worked up the courage to tell himself.

You knew about his mother, about his family. You knew about the tradition, knew what it meant to him. But to give your daughter his mother’s name, to grant her that honor alongside a world of a woman like Mags? What could have happened to convince him to forgive her? To forgive himself? 

There’s so much, too much, he doesn’t know. And he should, he should know. 

Why doesn’t he know?

“Hm? Oh,” you smile, brows furrowed in understanding, not pity. “Bad day?” How often does this happen that you can tell from just one word? Or is it just Finnick that you know so well?

His nod is a halting, stunted thing, but it's more than enough for you to wipe your hands on a dish towel and turn the stove off. You untie your apron, laying it on one of the wooden chairs at the dining table. He recognizes the table as the one he’s had for years, lovingly carved by his uncle Ewan as a wedding gift to his parents. Did Finnick make those chairs? Did he add anything to this house to make it his own?

He takes you in, and you are radiant in the morning light. Flour on your forehead and a glint in your eye. There’s a bit of dried drool on your cheek, and you’re in a baggy shirt and a pair of boxers, both of which are his. Mismatched socks drag on the hardwood as you come to them.

He has a thought then, one he’s sure he has every morning, good or bad, without fail. Beautiful. 

“I was telling Papa my favorite colors.”

“Were you? She’s been all about colors since Peeta sent her a set of paints he made for her birthday.”

“He says I’m gonna be a drawer.” She says it with far too much pride for someone so little.

“Well, your uncle isn’t the one cleaning the paint outta your hair, now is he? And what happened to you wanting to be a hunter like titi Kat?” You playfully pull on a curl, kissing her cheek right before you blow a raspberry on it. Mags giggles and squirms. You pull back enough to look at him, and he tries not to flinch away from how much you see. “What do you remember last, baby?”

“Last?” He repeats. He remembers sitting behind you, legs spread for you to lean back between. He was rubbing his hands on your heavily pregnant belly, using some kind of plant oil mixture your mom had sent to help relieve the pressure of your rapidly expanding skin. You rested your head on his shoulder, exhausted. Everything made you exhausted then, and this was the only position the baby would let you rest in. You both fell asleep like that, despite the twinge in his back. “You were due any day. I spent more time massaging your stomach than sleeping.”

His own anxiety was to blame as well. He’d been worried throughout the entire pregnancy. It was hard to say if you could even carry a child with all the turmoil your body had been through. From the Capitol to the Games, even your own childhood. The odds stacked against you, and it seemed none of them could stick around long. You blamed yourself even if you never told him so, and nothing he said could convince you otherwise. You wrote many letters, but never sent them to anyone, and he didn’t wanna pry; you were allowed to keep some vulnerabilities for yourself.  It was hard getting past the first trimester, and for a while, it felt nearly impossible. 

But once you made it into your second trimester and the risk of losing this one diminished, new fears took root. 

What if there were complications? What if the baby were born still and blue? Could you survive that loss? Could he? What if he lost you both? And even if the baby was perfectly healthy, what if you weren’t? Physically? Mentally? What if you ended up like his mother? What if he was doomed to be his father? 

What if, what if, what if…

What if…nothing? His worries were for nothing, because here you are before him, whole and more at ease than he left you. Motherhood has taken to you, embracing you like a lover. Plush with soft curves, not skin and bone like he’s had so many nightmares about. 

You nod, humming. “That’s okay. You’re okay,” you run your fingers through his hair—it’s longer than he remembers it being, strands brushing his shoulders—nails scratching softly in a way that loosens some of the tension in his shoulders. He leans into your touch. “Is there anythin’ you wanna ask me? You’ve usually got more questions by now.”

For some reason, that’s what does him in, unspooling the length of rope he had knotted around his emotions. His shoulders shudder with his sobs, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath and just…can’t. 

“Aw, my baby. You’re okay. You’re okay.” You coo, pulling him into your arms, and he goes easily. He buries his face into your neck and cries, effectively trapping Moonie between you both, but she hugs him too, shushing him and rubbing his shoulder in a clumsy imitation of what you’re doing. You soothe him, the fingers of one hand detangling the bird’s nest on his head while the other hand grips his neck, rubbing at the muscles on either side. It’s a grounding hold, one you both know works on him. “We’re okay. We are.”

“I don’t–I don’t remember any of it,” he chokes out, “Why can’t I remember, Star?”

“Mm. It’s hard to say.” You shrug as well as you can with all his weight on you. “The science types think it’s got something to do with all that voltage doing damage to your brain. The head doctors think it’s a response.”

He shakes his head, more confused now than ever. “Response?”

“To the trauma. Your mind’s been trying to protect you for so long from so much, it jumps the gun a little now that there’s nothing to hide from. Nobody leaves the Games unchanged, Finn. Nobody comes out the other side without a few scars to show for it. You know that. It could be a number of things. Or a mix of them. Happens to Peeta sometimes.” You say it like you're commenting on the weather and not his fucked up head. “Annie, too. ‘M not sure why it’s just yall, but no two brains are created equal, I guess. But the why isn’t that important to you, is it? Not as much as the what?”

As usual, you see right through him to the meat and bones. No nerve is unscathed from your attentive hand; you know your way around his mind better than he does.

“I missed so much…”

“I can fill you in on the stuff you always wanna know. Let’s see… I was in labor with little Miss here for damn near fourteen hours on some of the best drugs the Capitol had to offer. She was five pounds and thirteen ounces, you cried when she was born. And when you held her. And when she yawned. Her first word was ‘yum’, Johanna and Annie are her joint god mothers, and you had her in the water before she could walk. Oh, Katniss and Peeta are expecting their first this December, and I’ve got it on good authority that pregnancy has turned Cattail into a real tyrant. We were thinking of sending them Moonie’s old clothes.” You get it all out without stuttering, and the whirlwind of information renders Finnick speechless. 

“Good job, Mama!” Moonie gives you a round of applause, which you thank her for with a kiss.

“We did pretty okay for ourselves, huh?” When all he can do in return is hold you both tighter, you sigh. “You did good, Finn. I promise. Even if you don’t remember it all, you were beside me every step of the way.”

Frustration bubbles up, nearly taking the place of his grief because that wasn’t him. He feels like someone came and took his life. Holding your hand as you pushed, teaching his daughter how to swim, being there for her first steps, and sleeping beside you every night. Playing family in his place. Or maybe he’s the imposter. He’s the Finnick that’s in the wrong time, putting the real one’s life on hold for who knows how long. 

“Will I even remember any of this tomorrow? I…I want to.” Desperately, he wants to. He needs to.

“You always have before. They’re not gone for good, you’ll get ‘em back.”

“What if I don’t?”

At that, you pull back, and Finnick feels infinitely colder for it. 

You tilt his head up, chin between your thumb and pointer, making sure he’s looking you in the eye when you say, “Then you don’t. There’d be nothin’ to be done.” You’re not dismissing it, not acting like it isn’t a legitimate concern to have. You’ve accepted it as a likelihood long before he asked, probably longer than Moonie’s been alive. “I’ve spent my whole life scared of the things I couldn’t control, hiding because I thought it’d be safer. That was no way to live. I’m not afraid of loving you, Finnick Odair, and I won’t hide from any parts of it.”

Does the real Finnick know just how lucky he actually is? 

“How? How are you not more upset?” He’s at a loss; he knows you’d never turn your back on anyone who needed you, but everyone has a breaking point. How could he be worth it, nowhere near to being the man he was physically, and definitely not mentally. “You’re the one who has to pause your life to take care of me, never knowing who you’ll wake up next to. This can’t be what you imagined it’d be like.”

“I won’t lie to you, it isn't. But I’m happy with the good and the bad. Because I didn’t just fall for what’s up here,” you tap his temple, and then rest your hand on his sternum. “I fell for this: this beautiful spirit. You’ve got my heart in there, Odair, and I’ll always know that, even if you forget. Besides, how could I be upset at anything that wants to protect you? If our roles were reversed, would you ever get sick of loving me at my lowest?” 

He shakes his head, almost affronted that you’d ask him even if he knows it’s a trap you set just for him. “Of course not, Star. Never.”

“If you can’t remember, we’ll  just have to make new memories.” You kiss him on the lips, nice and slow, even tearstained and with what’s certainly a manic gloss to his sad eyes. You don’t give him more than he can handle, nothing that would overwhelm him, but he finds himself chasing after you when you pull back with a grin that nearly blinds him. “Glad we got that settled.”

He’s being led to a chair before he even comprehends moving. Sniffling, he shifts his hold on Moonie, only to find her a dead weight. She’s passed out on his chest, having drifted off at some point, drooling all over him. The love he feels for her would surely knock him off balance if he wasn’t already sitting. He’s out of his depth, but it’s muscle memory to adjust her head so she doesn’t hurt her neck. “Should I—”

“Nah, keep her. You usually like to hold her on bad days, and she sleeps better in your arms anyway.” With an insurmountable fondness, you take them both in before stepping away. He wants you back immediately. “You can ask me whatever you want while I finish up breakfast.” You flit about the kitchen like a hummingbird hopped up on honey. There’s something about that that makes the pressure in his brain sway back and forth like a boat on water. He notices the frankly disproportionate amount of biscuits covering almost all the available space on the counters. He remembers you being as sick as a dog, and the only thing you and the baby could stomach were the biscuits your mom used to make you when you were sick. 

It’s easy on the stomach, you would tell him, knee deep in dough. And who was he to complain about the space all the bread took up when they kept you happy and tasted heavenly?

Finnick has tons he wants to know; instead, he asks a much more pressing question. 

“Star… Are you pregnant?”