Work Text:
There’s meat on his porch again. He thinks it’s elk this time, and he picks up the cloth-wrapped offering like it’s something fragile.
Finn hasn’t actually seen Huntress Wizard since the wake, not since she sat quietly with him by the fire after everyone else had gone home and held his hand until he fell asleep. She was gone by the time he woke up, but she left a tiny wooden carving in the shape of Jake’s sword—her way of honoring that Jake had died a warrior’s death. Finn had cried then, and he cried again with BMO when they nestled it amongst the flowers that surrounded his brother’s tombstone.
His eyes flit over the tree line. There’s no sign of her, but Finn knows her well enough by now to know that doesn’t mean she isn’t there. He closes the door behind him and starts preparing the meat for dinner like he’s done every night since the wake.
Technically, he doesn’t need to cook. He probably doesn’t need to cook for the next month if he’s being honest—his friends come over almost constantly, bringing food and weapons and gadgets in their attempts to cheer him up—but he likes having something to do with his hands, and cooking reminds him of Jake without having to talk about things he doesn’t have the words for. And Finn’s always been more of an action over words kind of guy, even if his friends insist that he needs to talk this one out.
He knows his friends mean well, but talking about Jake in the past tense just makes him sadder, and he can tell that trying to fix him is how they’re coping with their own grief—PB especially—and that just makes him pretend to feel better so they can feel better. He understand the impulse—he’d probably do the same in their shoes—but it’s all so exhausting that he feels worse when he’s with them than he does when he’s alone.
Finn glances at the gifts his friends have left for him. They’ve piled up in the cabin, and they make the whole place feel smaller. He doesn’t want the easy coddling the gifts offer. They make him feel useless. He wants movement because if he’s moving then he’s not drowning, so he sets aside half the meat on a plate and seasons the other half as he fries it, and his mind is filled with nothing but the sound of food sizzling on the pan.
When the food is ready, he brings the plate and the pan to the table, then he only hesitates a little before opening his door. Company is difficult these days, but he understands now that it’s not because he wants to be alone. He just doesn’t want platitudes, doesn’t want company that expects something from him that he can’t truly give. He wants company that doesn’t need him to be anything.
“Huntress,” he calls, and the breeze carries his voice.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then there’s a rustle somewhere in the trees and a blur, and Huntress Wizard appears in front of him like she was standing there all along.
“I made dinner,” he says. “Do you want to come in?”
Huntress stares at him, searching. “If you want me to,” she says evenly.
Finn steps aside to let her in. “I want you to.”
They eat and Huntress Wizard doesn’t ask questions that Finn doesn’t have answers to, doesn’t try to relive memories that are still too raw. After dinner, she helps him put away the gifts, and his home feels a little less strange. He knows his friends will bring more tomorrow, but for now, it’s a little easier to breathe.
Later, when they sit by the fire, she pulls out her flute. She doesn’t ask him to play with her, but he does anyway, and he thinks of how much Jake loved hearing them play. They play this flute song for his brother, and he wonders if Jake can hear all the things he doesn’t have the words for.