Drabbletag 5 - The Hunger Gsmes, Katniss/Johanna, rationing
Title: Scarcity
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Katniss/Johanna
Rating: PG
Prompt: Drabbletag 5 - Katniss/Johanna, rationing
Word count: 250
Summary: The war is over, but things aren't easy yet.
When Johanna visits, Katniss greets her on the doorstep with a hawkish glare, relaxes only slightly when she sees who it is, suspicious even of those who aren't strangers. Still, she opens the door, asks Johanna in. The kitchen is bare but warm, full of familiar things. Bundles of dried herbs, pine resin and woodsmoke. A pot on the stove. Thin broth, simmering.
It's been a hard year, even with the war over, and Twelve is in bad shape. Johanna frowns into the mug of soup that Katniss presses into her hands, says bluntly, "you have enough up here? In this winter?"
A tight smile. "We make do. We're used to hunger, here."
We don't want charity, is what she means.
Doesn't matter, Johanna wants to say, ours is yours, but she understands pride, and those gaunt cheekbones that Katniss bears like battle scars. They're all accustomed to scarcity, made sick by abundance, and affection, more than bread, is a luxury to hold close and mete out sparingly. Sometimes, she thinks she and Katniss understand each other too well.
They always talk around these things, except when they don't talk at all. And that's easier, most of the time - the two of them tangled in thin sheets, rough hands, biting kisses, the memory of blood.
Easier, but you can't live on it.
Johanna sets the soup aside, stands to take Katniss in her arms - all sharp edges, bone beneath skin - and leans down, reminds her: no need to ration this.
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Pairing: Katniss/Johanna
Rating: PG
Prompt: Drabbletag 5 - Katniss/Johanna, rationing
Word count: 250
Summary: The war is over, but things aren't easy yet.
When Johanna visits, Katniss greets her on the doorstep with a hawkish glare, relaxes only slightly when she sees who it is, suspicious even of those who aren't strangers. Still, she opens the door, asks Johanna in. The kitchen is bare but warm, full of familiar things. Bundles of dried herbs, pine resin and woodsmoke. A pot on the stove. Thin broth, simmering.
It's been a hard year, even with the war over, and Twelve is in bad shape. Johanna frowns into the mug of soup that Katniss presses into her hands, says bluntly, "you have enough up here? In this winter?"
A tight smile. "We make do. We're used to hunger, here."
We don't want charity, is what she means.
Doesn't matter, Johanna wants to say, ours is yours, but she understands pride, and those gaunt cheekbones that Katniss bears like battle scars. They're all accustomed to scarcity, made sick by abundance, and affection, more than bread, is a luxury to hold close and mete out sparingly. Sometimes, she thinks she and Katniss understand each other too well.
They always talk around these things, except when they don't talk at all. And that's easier, most of the time - the two of them tangled in thin sheets, rough hands, biting kisses, the memory of blood.
Easier, but you can't live on it.
Johanna sets the soup aside, stands to take Katniss in her arms - all sharp edges, bone beneath skin - and leans down, reminds her: no need to ration this.