a/n [This is waaay shorter, wow. And it's basically just Annie's point of view. Whatever, difference is grand anyway. Uses the c/p prompt 'muse'. Still for the Iris.]
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Chapter II - The Elderly
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You can tell a lot about people by how they handle four things: A rainy day, the elderly, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas lights.
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From the stories she'd been told, Annie expected a lively woman with slightly greying hair and too bright smiles and eyes. Instead, when the door opened long after she'd knocked, a short old lady stood in the foyer, and from the looks of it, she was more exhausted than bright. Annie smiled in a quick greeting, unsure of what to say. She had not prepared herself enough for this moment.
Next to her, Finnick plopped the bags down in a small heap and wrapped his arms around the woman tightly, even lifting her toes from the ground. Annie imagined how sweet it would be had he still been a small child, but now she was only worried he'd knock her to the ground or crush her lungs before she had the chance to cry out.
When he pulled away, he was grinning bigger than the night sky, and it pulled another small smile out of Annie. Still, as a nervous habit, she gave a tug on her sleeve to pull it down, and fiddled with a loose thread. The awkwardness was so thick she could almost see it, but she took a deep breath because it was, after all, just in her head.
When Annie extended her hand, trying to relieve some of her discomfort, the elder woman ignored it entirely and moved straight in for a hug that was too tight for comfort. The stories of her suddenly all started to make sense. It disappointed Annie that she was so quick to judge.
The stories, when all pieced together, were something like this.
The woman's name was Mags, which was short for something, but the nickname had been in use for so many years that nobody could remember what it really was. Apparently, since the beginning of time, or at least close enough to it, she'd been a foster mom. Finnick was the last child she ever took in.
But the stories always portrayed her as a superhero. Baking a fresh batch of cookies every day after school. Painting the house a new color every June. Once she'd won second prize in a home makeover magazine. And the clothes she knitted were the softest things in the whole wide world. (Annie knew that one first hand, though. She'd stolen plenty of Finn's sweaters on cold nights.)
"Lovely to meet you, dear," Mags said, smiling and smiling and smiling, and even though there was no relation between her and Finnick, Annie couldn't help but see the similarities. This woman had all the wonder and greatness as her foster child did.
Immediately, Annie felt right at home.
"I've heard so much about you," she responded.
Finnick grabbed her hand, and together the three of them walked inside, invisible boundaries disappearing, and talked well into the evening of a little Finn, Mags' garden, and everything in between.