A/N: Mentions of vomit.

"Shara's mom lets her wear lipstick on picture day."

"Do I look like Shara's mom to you?" Bad question. With shiny blue-black hair that flowed past her waist and wide blue eyes framed by equally impressive eyelashes, Annie would bet that Seya Vergas had emerged full-formed from the seafoam. Before her seven-year-old daughter could jump on that – and Annie knew better than to think Maggie would pass up that opportunity – she tapped on Dylan's plate. "Come on, eat up."

"I'm not hungry."

"But you need to eat so you can learn. Food fuels your brain and your body."

The pout came out, and Dylan shook his head. "Not hungry." He'd been such an easy baby. Did some kids just put off the Terrible Twos until they were four?

"You aren't leaving this table before you've eaten five bites. I get to decide what counts as a bite."

"Mom, what if it's just a little bit of –"

Time to put her foot down. "I said no, Maggie."

"No, you didn't. You just said you didn't look like Shara's mom."

"She's right, you know." Of course Ronan would choose now to add his input. He could go days without making so much as a peep during breakfast, even when she tried to drag him into the conversation, but now that breakfast was slipping out of her control, he just had to step in. "You didn't specifically say no," he added.

"You both know what I meant." She checked the clock. Good, they had eleven minutes before they needed to leave. That should be enough time to do something about the weird curl Ronan had going on over his forehead. Annie normally wouldn't bother, writing off any interesting curls and bumps as Finnick's genes and therefore not her problem, but today was picture day, and that called for a little extra effort. "That bite doesn't count, Dyl - sweetie, what's wrong?"

Annie had seen that look enough times to know what was going to happen. She grabbed Dylan under the arms and ran towards the bathroom.

"Mom, what if I –"

"Not now, Maggie!" They almost made it to the toilet. Some hit her foot, but she hardly noticed. It wasn't the first time one of her kids had thrown up on her, and she doubted it'd be the last. She set him down before the toilet and rubbed his back as he coughed. "It's all right, sweetie." Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, and her heart hurt. "Shh," she comforted him, "you're going to be okay."

"Gross. Is Dylan sick?" Maggie peeked into the bathroom.

No, he's puking his guts up because he's not sick. Annie bit back the words. No reason to make things worse. "Yes. Can you give him some privacy, please?"

Maggie retreated, and Dylan's shoulders stopped shaking under her hands. "Better?" she asked, and he shook his head. Poor thing. "I'm going to go check on your siblings. Can you stay here and call for me if you get sick again?" This got a brave little nod. She kissed the top of his dark head – no fever, a good sign – and returned to the kitchen.

Ronan was still eating his toast as though nothing unusual had occurred. That boy had an iron stomach. "Ronan, call Mrs. Trawlers and ask if she can drive you and Maggie to school." She fished around under the kitchen sink for the necessary cleaning supplies, pulling out the disinfectant and gloves. The spatula sat in its usual spot at the sink.

"Mommy, I think I'm gonna throw up again." As she rushed back to the bathroom, she didn't have time to wonder why Maggie was digging through her purse.

"I still can't believe her teacher didn't make her take it off." All these years later, she remembers in perfect detail Maggie's proud smile as she presented Annie with her school picture. The deep brownish-red would have done nothing for her daughter's golden skin and bronze hair even if applied correctly. Smeared over her lips with all the enthusiasm of a seven-year-old certain they had gotten away with something, it turned an otherwise very nice picture into a complete mess.

"I had a hard enough time with just our three. I can't imagine trying to wrangle twenty at a time."

"Seconded." Annie runs a finger over the photo and turns to Finnick, smiling. "I was so angry at her."

"Not as mad as you were at me for buying the picture."

"We could've had it retaken."

"But it wouldn't have been as memorable."

She frowns at him and settles back into the couch. His arm tightens around her shoulders as she flips to the next page. Annie snorts at the picture of Ronan, his right arm in a cast, grinning as he holds up his eighth-grade diploma with his good hand. "What is this, the album of all the times I wanted to throttle our kids?"

"I thought you wanted our kids to graduate."

"Of course I did. I was talking about that." She points to his cast. "What on earth made him think that riding his bike on the very edge of the pier was a good idea?"

Finnick chuckles. "Fourteen-year-old boys do some stupid stuff. I was one once too, you know."

"Thank goodness I'm not your mother. I never would have survived."

"There are a lot of reasons I'm glad you're not my mother." He's still proud of his come-ons. Finnick leans down to kiss her neck. She smells like the soap in their shower, and he knows the same scent clings to his own body as well.

"That's awful." Nevertheless, Annie leans into the caress, and her fingers thread through his hair, holding him to her. But when he starts to edge down the neck of her blouse, she nudges him away. "Maybe later," she answers the question in his eyes. "I want to look through this first." He keeps his head on her shoulder as they flip through years of memories. He's only included the good ones, weddings and birthdays and quiet days at the beach, the ones he wants to hold onto forever. Most of them can be passed with a smile, maybe a quick word or two. A few need more time, contemplation, discussion. And here, in the home they've shared for thirty-five years, thirty of them as a married couple, is the perfect place for all of it.

Annie insisted that going through the boxes at the back of the closet was more than enough of an anniversary gift. Some of them had been sitting there since they returned from Thirteen to find what remained of their possessions strewn across the floor. Finnick still didn't know if it had been peacekeepers or looters. Stuffing what remained into boxes was meant as a temporary solution. Later, when they had more time, they would go through everything.

Sitting in the center of the guest bedroom, surrounded by boxes, Finnick had to wonder when they thought they'd thought they would have more time. Nothing he could do about that now. He picked a box at random and opened it. Some recipe cards, a few letters, and three years' worth of Couture Capitale. He'd forgotten that Annie's stylist used to send those. Finnick set a few of the magazines aside – Dylan might get a kick out of those - and binned the rest of it. One box down. Way too many to go.

He smiled when he opened the fourth, for Annie and Dylan smiled back at him. Well, Annie squint-smiled, her sunhat not blocking as much of the bright July sun as she'd probably hoped, and Dylan's mouth hung open as he stared at the camera, Annie's oversized sunglasses even larger on his nine-month-old face. Finnick set it aside to show Annie later.

By noon, the Annie pile had grown to include at least three dozen gems, and he still had a mountain of boxes left to go. When he found the remnants of a well-intentioned scrapbooking project, Finnick grinned. Perfect.

"That's my favorite." Maggie and Dylan chase after the bubbles Ronan blows for them. He can hear their giggles now just as clearly as he did twenty years ago. The minute he'd found it, tucked into the very last box, he knew it would have to go on the last page.

"I can see why." Annie smiles. "They look like they're having fun."

"They were. It took me forever to convince them to come inside that night."

"I'm sure you pressed really hard."

"Of course."

"Didn't accept any requests for five more minutes."

"That would have been irresponsible of me," he agrees.

She shifts in his arms. Now that he can't avoid her eyes, it's getting harder to maintain the innocent face he's spent years perfecting. "And you definitely didn't blow any bubbles for them after you said it was bedtime."

"Mrs. Odair, you are really very good at this guessing game."

Instead of the scolding he deserves, he gets a kiss on the cheek, which he considers a much better alternative. "Thank you. It's perfect." Another kiss, this time on the lips.

"Thank you for putting up with me for thirty years."

"It's been a chore." She jumps when his fingers find the ticklish spot on her side. "I mean, you're welcome, most wonderful and loving husband."

"That's better."

He earns another kiss on his cheek. "You know, Odair, you aren't too bad. I think we might just have to shoot for another thirty."

"I was thinking fifty."

"A hundred and three and a hundred and four?" A hundred and five, actually, but he's not going to correct her. "Hey, if you're up for it, I guess we can give it a go."

"I'm definitely up for it." He wiggles his eyebrows at her.

She rolls her eyes. "I might love you, but remember that you're still awful."

"I'll make a note of it."