This is the sequel to Mags' Weapon. You'll need to have read that first. I'll wait...

If you've already read Mags' Weapon, but you read it before June 2017, you'll want to reread chapters 4 and especially 5, which I rewrote substantially.

Okay! If you've made it this far, this is the beginning of an 8-part canon-divergent AU that, like Mags' Weapon, ignores virtually everything about Mockingjay, including plot, backstory, and characterization.

It'll take a while to post all 50 or so chapters, but this is a finished work, no need to worry about it being abandoned. You can expect one chapter every Friday night for a while; then I'm expecting to pick up the pace.

Now without further ado, let the several hundred thousand words of Finnick fic begin.

Finnick takes the octopus out of his suitcase, then he puts it back in. The cavernous space inside dwarfs the tiny driftwood carving, but without it, the suitcase has nothing to hold.

He has no excuse for bringing anything practical to the Capitol. Can he get away with something sentimental like this octopus? Trying to decide, Finnick traces his fingertips along the seven and a half tentacles, two lopsided eyes, and aborted attempt at suction cups on one tentacle.

Annie was planning to throw it out and try again, but Finnick fell in love with it instantly, declared it a victor of the Octopus Games, and started it doing a wobbly dance in his hands. While she was bent over laughing, he pocketed it, angling it away from her snatching hands.

"Don't show that to anyone!" Annie ordered, outraged.

"Come on, I want something that reminds me of laughing with you." She hesitated, and Finnick urged, "It's just for me, I promise."

Annie narrowed her eyes but let it go. "All right, but when I figure out how to carve an octopus that looks like an octopus, I'm making you take that one too. And show it to people."

She never did. Finnick made too big a fuss over the damaged one being perfect.

Now he's cradling it again, trying to figure out whether bringing it will be too suspicious.

Maybe if he lies about where it came from. That? he imagines himself saying to Dahlia when they're married. I've had it since I was a kid.

It has a certain district charm, she acknowledges politely. They say no more about it. Eventually, it falls behind the cabinet, where it's swept up by an Avox and cast into a dustbin.

Finnick takes the octopus out again, completely at a loss. He never understood district tokens before this. They always seemed like a distraction. Who would choose sentiment over survival?

But never before has he left District Four without expecting to see it again. He's torn between wanting something to keep him from being alone in the Capitol, and not wanting to let them touch anything that belongs here.

His trident, for instance. Finnick knows his fans will eat up the moment when he steps off the train holding it, and that's a photo op he doesn't have the option of turning down. So it's lying on the bed above the suitcase.

If he doesn't bring the octopus, though, then he'll only ever have a trident to keep him from being all-Capitol.

Finnick finally puts the octopus back in its drawer.

It's only a stand-in for his real dilemma, anyway. How is he going to break the news to Annie? She thinks they're home free, because Mags is here and in better shape than anyone had the right to expect.

Finnick, though, knows that sneaking into the Capitol out of season is one thing, easily overlooked with a little money in the right hands. But Finnick tugging on his network of contacts and commandeering an impressive array of resources on no notice will have Snow lying awake at night wondering what Finnick's capable of, if Finnick doesn't do something, now.

He did his best to make his stay in the Capitol look innocent on camera. Now he's quietly packing his bags at home and preparing to move there permanently, hoping Snow will see that he knows better than to try to get away with anything.

There are worse marriages I could make, Finnick tries telling his shaking hands. I always knew any marriage I ended up in would be arranged, and I'd count myself lucky if it was arranged by Mags and not Snow. I never minded before.

'Before', of course, was before Annie. Annie, who's finally letting him live with her.

But if losing Mags and Annie is the price he has to pay for saving Mags, then he'll do what he has to do. He always does.

If you don't pay the price, they will. You've got currency as a high-profile victor, maybe enough to absorb the punishment for this infraction. Snow just wants obedience. That's all he wants. Submit before he asks, and maybe District Four will be safe.

The revolution planning can carry on without him. He may have to accept that moving to the Capitol without a fight will be his last contribution.

And what if Mags is right, and the war breaks out sooner rather than later, and he's in the Capitol?

Finnick can't concentrate a moment longer. With his suitcase still open and empty, he flies out of his house. Sprinting down the street to Mags' place, desperate to put his head in Annie's lap.

He's so intent on his goal that, when he reaches Mags' front door, he almost crashes into Annie coming out. Both her arms are full with bags.

"Annie?" Finnick freezes. "Where-"

"I'm sorry." She stares straight ahead without looking at him. "I have to live alone. I tried." Annie pushes past him down the porch stairs, on a single-minded mission to get home. "I'm sorry."

Finnick knows her in this mood, knows if he lets her go, she'll do whatever she needs to do, and let him wrap her in his arms in a day or two. It still breaks him, every time.

Now he's at Mags' house, with nowhere else to go. At a loss, he opens the door and staggers in, not even looking where he's going. He curses when he trips over her spare cane, belatedly remembering that they'd rearranged everything.

Mags is lying in bed in the living room. Her eyes open when he comes in to check on her.

"You okay?"

She nods.

"Annie tell you she's moving out?" Finnick shoves his hands into his pockets, physically hauling himself back from hovering.

Mags nods again. Her eyes close.

"I see. Well. I'll be...upstairs. If you need anything."

With that, he goes back to the room that used to be his and Annie's and starts pacing. It was easier to go down to the academy or to the sea when he knew Annie was here for Mags. But he has to get used to leaving Mags on her own.

Let Annie go. Let Mags go. Do the responsible thing, and live with it.

With the water from the shower head pouring down over him, Finnick stares blankly at the bar of soap in his hand, trying to remember if he's scrubbed down yet. Did he do it on autopilot while compulsively replaying the images of his future in the Capitol? He has no idea how long he's been standing here.

Is he losing time? He thinks maybe he hasn't used the soap yet, because he's feeling the urge to grab the washcloth and start in, but he's afraid of that too.

Finnick's always sworn he'll never start trying to scrub his skin off, and so far he's held himself to that promise. His body is his, it's a tool, and it serves him well. There's no shame in it. One good rubdown, make sure to get all the nooks and crannies, and stop. If he's somewhere where he genuinely needs more work, that's what stylists are for.

But if he really has been standing here motionless all this time, wondering why Annie moved out and whether he can promise to do better if she tells him what he did wrong, then he needs to clean up. What did he do wrong?

You're exhausting Mags. And it's exhausting me to try to deflect your intensity.

Maybe he should move out too. He's not stupid, he knows Mags is having to make up work to keep him busy.

But soon he's going to be living with Dahlia, and he'll be lucky if he's allowed anywhere near Mags once a year. And if anything happens to Mags and Annie has to mentor with...who? Donn? Rudder? There'll be nothing he can do.

Mags will ask him to move out if he's too much to handle, won't she? She's never had a problem being blunt.

And here he is, still with no idea where in the showering process he is. Finnick stares blankly down, trying to figure it out. The washcloth's wet, but where he's got it hanging, it would be wet anyway.

At least there's no reason to suspect a hidden camera here in Mags' bath. He's never been sure about his own.

Finnick's hand clenches convulsively, and the soap goes flying with a crash to the bottom of the tub. Cursing, he tries to grab it, but it slips between his fingers and goes sliding down behind him to the drain. Now he's kneeling and feeling around blindly, trying to pretend the stinging in his eyes is from the water.

Trust Mags to have the same plain soap cakes you'll find anywhere in this district, Finnick thinks irrelevantly. He can't get away with anything less than twenty bottles, even here, or someone will complain.

Hands jerking as he pulls up the soap, Finnick tells himself to get it together. Pretty soon he won't have the luxury of a private shower.

Finish here, let himself scrub exactly once just in case he hasn't already, and go see if Mags—no, Annie—no, Rudder—needs anything.

It's dark enough, Finnick tells himself as he settles in on Annie's porch. No one will see him.

He won't go in, but he doesn't want to go too far from Mags tonight, and it's not like he's going to sleep. So he might as well sit here.

From here, you can see Mags' house, but that's not the real reason he picked this spot. He can hear Annie moving around inside, and he just wants to pretend. And maybe he wants to sit outside for a while, drink in the Village before he has to leave.

Annie's house, Mags' house...he passed Rudder's on the way here. The light's off, which tells Finnick Rudder hasn't gotten back from the academy yet.

There are no lights anywhere in the Village, in fact, though he can see some outside. Finnick glances up at the sky, but it's a gleaming white, typical for this time of year. Too foggy for stars.

He's heard that there are places outside the bright nightlife of the Capitol where you can go to watch the stars on a clear night. Dahlia will probably want to take him. If she hasn't had her hovercraft completely confiscated, maybe he can even find out what the stars look like from the air.

Finnick knows he needs to come up with things to look forward to. That's how he's survived every encounter with his clients, no matter how unpleasant. He always finds something he can enjoy, even if it's just an ego trip. Resentment is a luxury he can't afford.

Stars, then. And the timing is good, Finnick tells himself, trying to believe it. Now he won't spend the rest of his life feeling like his marriage kept him from living with Annie. Now he knows that's not an option. And maybe it's better that he be forced to leave, so he can't resent Annie, not even a little bit, for not letting him live with her. This way, he can just remember the good times. When he lets himself remember his life before at all.

A light flickers on across the street. Probably Mags getting dinner. He'll stop in later tonight, but he's trying to give her some space.

Finnick has never thought about the arrangements in the Village before. There are some three dozen houses, most of them empty, and everyone's pretty well spaced out. It never occurred to him to wonder why he ended up in a house so far from Mags. He figured the Capitol made these choices. But then Mags insisted on putting Annie close to her.

Which makes Finnick wonder...did she need a break, nine years ago?

He's been sitting here this whole time listening to the sounds coming from within the house, pretending he's inside, so when the door opens behind him, he doesn't immediately react. Until he hears Annie yelp, and then he whips around to a banging door.

Shit. Shit! He was trying to leave her alone, but now he has to say something. "Annie!" he shouts through the closed door, hoping she can hear him through it. "It's just me! It's just Finnick!"

Nothing. Should he open the door, stick his head in, and make sure she doesn't think it's a Peacekeeper? Or leave, let her sort it out, and explain the next time she feels up to company?

Yeah. That one.

Finnick's trudging down the porch stairs when the door opens again, this time just a crack. "Finnick?"

"Annie!" Finnick spins on his heel. "I'm sorry, I wasn't going to come in, I promise. I was just-"

The door opens a tiny bit wider. "Just you? No one else?"

"No one else. I'm sorry, I was trying to leave you alone-" He turns to go, but Annie comes out onto the porch, holding out her hand.

"No, I was coming to find you. You were sitting here?"

Finnick hesitates, then they settle in next to each other on the bottom step. Annie slides her arm around his back, and he tucks his chin into her hair. "I shouldn't have, I'm sorry. I never imagined you'd come outside. I thought I'd just sit for a bit, and leave without you ever knowing I was here."

"No, that's kind of sweet." Annie hugs him. "Every time you accidentally scare me, you're being sweet. You missed me already? I was coming to apologize, and to explain."

"You don't have to. I know I've been frantic since the stroke. I was trying to tone it down, and then this happened." Finnick prides himself on his willpower, on resisting his impulses and staying focused on his goals, and then with Mags and Annie he keeps screwing it up.

"You didn't do anything, though. It's just I have to be alone to sleep-"

"This is the 'it's not you, it's me' speech?" Finnick interrupts. Does she know that he gives it every time he has to leave a client on good terms so he can move on to the next one?

"Yes, that's exactly what it is!" Annie flares. "At least if you want honesty. Do you want to hear why I moved out or not?"

He's not bracing himself any less than if she were listing his shortcomings, but yes, he supposes he does want honesty. "Go on. I'm sorry."

"Well. It really isn't you. Every time I woke up in Mags' house, if I heard a sound, I didn't know what it was. It always takes me a while to sort out not only what's real, but what's realistic. Like, maybe it's Peacekeepers, but it's probably just you or Mags."

"What if I promised to be super quiet next to you?" he tries. He's not sure how he'd ever get anything done this way, but Finnick's not thinking long term. They don't have that kind of time left.

Annie shakes her head. "That's when I wake up trying to remember how you died. Did they kill you to punish me? Because I can't attend Capitol events? Did you die protecting me? Is what killed you still in the room with me?"

Finnick's still desperately scrambling to come up with a solution, but Annie continues, "When I woke up and you were moving, even quietly, I saw movement before I saw anything else. What's moving? Is it a mutt? Is it a Career? Is it an earthquake? Is it a Peacekeeper? Should I freeze? Should I run? Should I hide?"

Fidgeting with a splinter on the railing, Finnick quietly surrenders. He doesn't get to choose who he lives with. It's only too bad this came after he started to care. At eighteen, they could have married him off to anyone.

"Besides. Remember when I couldn't handle you sleeping? Because you might wake up startled and scare me?"

Finnick remembers.

"And now I can. So there's hope. Just because I can't handle being married now-"

"Annie, they're never going to let me."

"All right, I know. But living together. I'm working on it."

He holds out his hand, and Annie takes it and hangs onto it. "That's one of the things I wanted to tell you. They may not let us live together either."

Annie gasps and looks at him in consternation.

"I haven't said anything yet, because I'm still not sure how this is going to play out. But the next time I leave, I may not be allowed to come back."

"You're going to marry her?" Annie's eyes meet his, pleading with him to tell her she misunderstood. "I thought our story saved you from that."

Finnick tightens his lips. "It may have. It fooled the socialites. But it didn't fool him, and if I have to pay the price, I will." He avoids saying the President's name in situations like this, because he has reason to believe the chatter analysis from the bugs is programmed to jump on key words.

"Just because we wanted Mags to be in a real medical facility for a few days?" Annie asks in disbelief.

"The rules are different for victors, so maybe we can pull this off. But victors are under a hell of a lot of scrutiny, and none more than me." What Finnick doesn't say, both because they might be being recorded, and because he doesn't want to get Annie's hopes up, is that if he plays along, acts eager, he might be too valuable on the market to be married off just yet. That still may not result in him coming home. But he's playing every card he's got like the world depends on it.

"Will you hate me if I turn all-Capitol?" Finnick whispers.

"You wouldn't," she reassures him. "Not all the way."

Finnick shivers. "I may not have a choice," he confesses. He can't admit to her just how easy that would be. Easier than maintaining this double life.

He needs Annie to understand the kind of pressure he's under. Take care of Mags, but not in a way that endangers the revolution. Live by Four values, but fit in in the Capitol. Be part of Capitol propaganda, but don't buy into it. Be on television all the time, but don't let them despise you back home when they're forced to watch. Go deep cover, deep enough that no one would ever suspect you of gathering information, but not so deep you forget why you're there. Wear the mask, but don't become the mask. But don't resent it, either.

Annie wraps her arms around him and practically climbs on top of him to keep him here, if only for a little while. "Listen. If you have to, you have to. But if you can do that, then you can do the reverse. You can become Finnick again. And you will, when you come home. I'll help."

Finnick just shakes his head. He wishes he could believe he'll get the chance.

"I was going to say, tell Mags I'll keep doing what I'm doing, winning over sponsors for District Four, but I think she'll know that. Whether I'll be able to meet up with her once a year and give her the details, I don't know." Living in the Capitol will make it easier to gather information, harder to pass it on.

"You haven't told Mags?" Annie asks.

"I can't. What would the point be?" She'll know what her treatment cost—him, maybe the revolution, hopefully not Annie—soon enough. She'll figure it out. "I had to tell you, because I can't just abandon you without explaining."

"Will I get any warning when it happens?" Annie asks.

Finnick is grim. "Annie, this is your warning."

Finnick's been calling Dahlia since he got back, every few days. Striking the right balance between eager and desperate. He never quite promises to marry her, but he plays along with her hints. Flatters her. Giggles knowingly when she mentions losing weight to fit into the dress she wants.

Until the day he can't get through at their usual time. It's not that she's not answering, it's that the line is dead.

With prickles on the back of his neck, Finnick turns on the television. He's expecting a wedding announcement. Dahlia's to someone else, if he's lucky. His and Dahlia's, if he's not. His to someone else, if he's really in trouble.

So he almost misses the announcement, waiting impatiently for the social news.

"...devastating fire in the Morningglory mansion last night, leaving no survivors. This unspeakable tragedy..."

"What?!" Finnick actually finds himself on his feet, clutching the remote in his hand hard enough to warp the plastic.

His knees shake from all the adrenaline pumping through him. He knew he was in trouble for the off-season visit, he knew he was getting away with something, he knew he'd have to bend over backwards to make up for it.

But now what?

They let everyone from Four into the Capitol, then let them out again. Finnick's heard nothing directly, had no sign that anyone in power even noticed they were there.

Until this.

What does it mean that Dahlia's dead and he's alive?

He wants to plant himself in front of Mags and Annie, and then he realizes that no, he needs to plant himself as far away from them as possible.

But no, he needs to warn Annie first.

What is he going to do if something happens to Annie?

Finnick sometimes thinks the reason the pond is maintained, and kept inside the fence, is because there are cameras in the trees, and he swims naked, and he sometimes wonders: is that too much vanity, even for him?

But at times like this, he's sure.

Swimming with Annie in the middle of the pond, their hands all over each other's bodies, making out, whispering in each other's ears, is the safest way to talk unheard.

He clings to Annie while she processes the news, holding her tight like he can actually protect her. "Is my house next?" she finally asks, and he thought he had a grip on worst-case scenarios, but she's ahead of him here.

"Annie, I don't know what's next!" Finnick cries. "I've just been playing as cooperative as possible. I thought if I acted like I wanted to marry her, I might not have to. Then...this happened."

"You think he fell for it?" Annie wonders.

"Not for a minute. I think he doesn't want me off the market. I'm in my prime, after all. I was counting on that, angling for her to take the fall. I wasn't counting on...this."

"What are you going to do?"

Finnick shakes his head, helpless. He wishes he had a better plan. "The Hunger Games are in a few weeks. I was expecting to be summoned before then, but if I'm not, I'll mentor, and I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. That means jumping through every hoop, following every rule, not trying to get away with anything like I usually do. Maybe it'll be enough. I still may not be allowed to come back, I always knew that."

He imagines living in the Capitol on the market instead of married to Dahlia. It'll be better for spying, but some of his clients...

It doesn't matter, he tells himself for the hundredth time. Protect Annie. Protect Mags. Do his job as Four's best spy.

"That's not much longer." Annie chews her lip. "Maybe I can try again with you and Mags, make it work for a few more weeks...I'm sorry, I didn't know. I feel awful. You're going to leave, and I may never see you again."

The temptation breaks Finnick's heart, but he shakes his head. "You're safer not being too closely connected to me after this. And honestly, I'm not sure I want that being my last memory of you. If living alone is better for you...I'll come over when you're feeling up to it? And you'll keep coming to visit Mags?"

"Always," Annie promises. "What should I do after you leave?"

Finnick shakes his head. "Have a meltdown so they keep underestimating you? Stay close to Mags? I'd tell you if I knew."

"I'm one of the expendable victors," Annie reminds him. "So is Mags."

She keeps telling him things he knows and things he can't fucking do anything about. "I'll do my best, Annie. I'm going to give Snow what he wants from me. That's all I can do. Maybe I'm valuable enough to get away with what I did for Mags, if I don't push it any more."

"I just can't believe he'd have someone in the Capitol killed. I thought they were safe."

"No one's safe," Finnick says bluntly. "There's only a hierarchy of—of expendability. Is that a word? I'm lower than a lot of the Capitolites, but higher than her. She was a lot richer, but she never knew how to play the game."

"Not a victor?" Annie says, in a surprisingly dark quip from her.

"Not a victor," Finnick agrees. "Just another casualty of me playing to win."

Mags gives Finnick a smile when she hears him come into the kitchen, and she hopes it hides the anxiety. If they're both getting breakfast, either she slept later than she ever does, or he was up late with insomnia. She glances up at the kitchen clock. No, it's her. Sleeping all the time now.

Not that that means he's spent the morning sleeping. Trying to sleep while listening with one ear until he heard her get up, more like.

As he comes closer, Mags can already feel his hands closing over her shoulders, ruffling her hair, cupping her cheek. She half-smiles in anticipation, but she doesn't look up from the container of grapes in front of her.

She's thankful her hands are as dexterous as ever, even if it means being thankful to that hospital in the Capitol, because she's able to pry it open without asking for help.

"Tired of waffles yet?" Finnick's teasing, but she hears the hidden offer.

But she nods. Nothing's a treat if you get it every day.

He'll be disappointed, but she'll thank him with her hands, and he'll know what she means.

So when she hears the fridge open, Mags looks up in surprise. No morning hug? Maybe it's a good sign, maybe it means the shock of her stroke is wearing off.

"Oh, wow!" Finnick's got his head inside the fridge. "Is all this from Annie?"

Yes, it's all from Annie. Mags hasn't had the heart to tell her she's not up to eating most of it. Whatever Finnick doesn't, Mags'll throw out bit by bit and let Annie keep tackling her guilt with food deliveries. It's not honest, but who can be honest when they don't have words?

It's the same reason she's keeping Finnick busy. She wants to help him find his calm again, but she can't get her reassurances through to him, so she's been letting him work off his fear instead. She hopes it's helping.

"Anything you want?" Finnick reads the note attached to one of the baking dishes. "Egg, cheese, mushroom, and squash casserole? Wow, Annie, seriously. I can make a mean plate of hash browns and salsa to go with it," he offers enticingly. "Annie's trained me well."

Mags sighs. And then there are the times when Finnick and Annie conspire to put her on the spot without meaning to.

Stalling for time, Mags spreads some marmalade on her bread—not toasted because she was too tired—and tries to strategize. If she accepts, he'll notice when she barely touches it. But if she refuses, she'll have to think up something else. She wishes she could tell him she'd rather have the morning hug, but she can't get up and walk across the kitchen.

"No?" Finnick says, when the silence goes on too long. "Mags, you eat like a bird. You always have."

His voice is full of affection, not reproach, but Mags still hears the disappointment. She matches it with a smidgen of annoyance of her own. Yes, I've always had bread and fruit for breakfast. Why do you think that's what you grew up on? What makes you think I'm going to change now? I only do comfort food when I'm stressed.

But her annoyance fades as quickly as it came. She can't handle watching him trying to hide how freaked out he is for the same reason he can't handle watching her with one foot in the grave. Mags just wants to know Finnick will be all right without her, which may be sooner rather than later.

It would be so easy if she could reach him, envelop him, with her words. They've always understood each other, and she's always been able to manage him effortlessly. So much so that until now, she'd forgotten that he needed management. Now he needs her, and she can't help him. How to tell him that just because she needs space, doesn't mean she doesn't love him more than anyone in the world? How does she tell him how much she misses working with him?

Mags closes one hand into a fist over her heart and reaches out the other to Finnick. My boy.

Leaving the fridge, Finnick takes one step toward her, but then his restraint crumples. "I'm sorry, Mags. You don't need to be babysitting. I'll come by in the evenings in case you need anything."

Before she can even think of trying to call him back with her broken babble, Finnick's gone. He closes the front door behind him, leaving her feeling small and selfish at getting her wish.

This series is dedicated to my partner, who's not even in this fandom, but listened to me talk about my fic non-stop for three years and was a wonderful sounding board. She must really love me or something. Special thank yous to everyone who read drafts or helped me hash out developments in chat: lorata, starrose3, twinklestar, inelegantprose, trovia, and kawuli.

Lots of thanks to anyone who left comments, or clicked like/kudos/favorite/bookmark on AO3/FFN/tumblr. Seriously, comments are LOVE. An especial thank you to drivingdeanwinchester, who silently and reliably clicked "like" on every one of my writing updates on tumblr, whether I was venting or celebrating, and thus saved me from months of shouting into the void; that was more encouraging than you know. And to the anonymous "teenager from the Caribbean" who left the Best Comment Ever on Mags' Weapon: OMG ILU, I hope you enjoy this fic too!