Work Text:
Soft humming slipped from Lucy Gray’s lips, a melodic sound that echoed through the elegant nursery that belonged to their third baby. Royal pink curtains draped from the long windows, blocking out the sun for nap time. The walls were painted a light shade of pink and a lavish white crib stood before the window, fit for a little Snow heiress.
Children had always been one of Coriolanus’ many desires, he had known this since he was a young boy himself. A beautiful wife fit to warm his bed and carry his offspring, to stay at home and raise his bloodline while he was busy running Panem. It was a life that had been written in the stars for him, an expectation.
Children were a part of his plan.
There was nothing he craved more than glory, to restore his family’s name from the height it had fallen during the war. He was hungry for ascendancy– it ate at him alive with each day that passed, consuming his entire being and leaving no room for anything else in his heart. He didn’t know a life without this thirst for greatness; it had become a part of him.
Lucy Gray wasn’t an idiot; she was much more perceptive than anyone gave her credit for. She knew the kind of man she had married– She read Coriolanus easily enough, she knew the third person he killed had not been his old self. She saw the lie the moment it left his lips; she saw it in his lovely, glacial eyes; they had gone still for a second, very cautious.
She had said nothing and continued walking
By then, Lucy Gray was already in too deep, and she understood exactly what she was to him. A loose end. If she ran, he would find her. She had no doubt about that, none at all. There was no doubt in her mind, so she made her own calculations accordingly. She would go back to the Capitol, allow him to cage her, wear his name and let him shape her as he pleased.
She felt the gentle flutters of their fourth child beneath her skin. Rubbing slow circles on her stretched skin, already envisioning the baby that was sure to arrive soon– blonde, she suspected. The way their first three children had been, another little snow to add to the collection, another piece of him.
Their children consistently bore a strong resemblance to him– as though nature itself had been reluctant to let any part of him go, each of their children had his big pale blue eyes that reminded Lucy Gray of the early morning skies during the summers back in District 12. Their hair was fine and a near-white blonde identical to their father.
Of course, a small part of him would’ve liked to see some of Lucy Gray in his children; many of her features were desirable and yet each child held no trace of her. His songbird was simply too lovely to disappear forever. He occasionally liked to indulge in the thought of babies that favoured her features.
Babies with her warm and soft olive skin that deepened in the sunlight, or perhaps her dark ringlets– coiling tightly at their temples and the napes of their neck, thick and soft. Maybe even a child with her wide and doe-like eyes, blinking up at him.
Lucy Gray crept towards the crib cautiously, feet pattering against the cool agarwood floors as silently as she could manage. Rose was an oddly quiet baby; she had been from the very beginning. She slept deeply and woke gently, her big blue eyes blinking open without complaint, taking in whatever was around her with her wide-eyed gaze.
Small and observant
Rose lay in the crib, chubby little limbs sprawled out on the soft crib mattress that cost a fortune, her eyelashes fluttering against her naturally rosy cheeks, tiny chest slowly moving with each breath she took. Lucy Gray combed her fingers through the fine, pale silk that was Rose’s hair. The baby suckled on her pacifier gently in sleep, soft and rhythmic.
Rose stirred, her tiny limbs flailing as she awoke, her arms immediately seeking comfort and warmth as she let out a coo through her pacifier. “Hello, my sweetheart.” Lucy Gray whispered, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.
She picked up the baby. Rose immediately settled into her mother’s arms, her body relaxing once again when in the comfort of her mother’s arms. Lucy Gray’s finger trailed down her daughter's chubby, rosy cheek before she gently pinched the skin, which elicited a sweet giggle from Rose.
The moment Rose’s eyes found hers, they sparkled– swimming with a happiness that was so pure and innocent, it made Lucy Gray’s heart clench. “You look just like your daddy, hm?” Lucy Gray hummed, nuzzling Rose’s hair, inhaling the sweet smell that came from any breastfed baby, causing Rose to let out another adorable coo, “You know why you’re named Rose, sweetheart?”
Making her way to the chair, the elegant rocking chair, a gift from the Plinth’s, with a delicate rose carved into the pale wood on the back. Lucy Gray lowered herself into the chair, her ankles throbbing with relief the moment she was off them. She had spent the better half of her day chasing after their eldest two children.
She shifted Rose against her chest until she found a comfortable position, her tiny bottom grazing the upper curve of her mother’s belly. “When I first arrived in this big city, I was from the districts. Afraid of what was to come… but there was your daddy. All fancy in his uniform.”
There was nothing truly romantic about the way she had met Coriolanus– She had stepped off a cargo train from District 12, disoriented, chosen to fight to death in an arena, and he had been assigned as her mentor like she was livestock. But she could lie to her babe about it, soften the edges and pretty it up into a love story worth telling his baby girl.
“Your daddy used to be a student at The Academy; he was my mentor.” Lucy Gray explained, her voice soft as she cradled the delicate little babe in her arms– a living piece of the man who had caged her, yet so small and innocent, entirely unaware of the man her father truly was. “And he gave me a white rose, my own mama used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals.”
A mewl slipped through Rose’s lips, which indicated her hunger– she was a chubby little thing, with round, rosy cheeks and dimpled wrists. Round, warm and solid in her arms– it strained them to hold her after a while. She was a well-fed thing; it was a privilege. Most children in the districts lay awake at night as hunger gnawed at them.
Usually, post-partum district women were so malnourished they struggled to provide milk for their babies, their bodies already having so little to give, and they gave it anyway. Lucy Gray had seen it herself, but she had filled out since her four pregnancies in the Capitol. Her arms had lost their stick-thin edges, and her knees were no longer knobby. She was soft now, filled out in the ways a woman was meant to be.
She felt a constant, lingering guilt in her bones for how lucky she felt.
Lucy Gray reached for the orange scarf her husband had so dearly gifted her years back. It had been his mother's once and still carried the faint, ghostly scent of her if you pressed it close enough, beautiful and floral. She pulled down the strap of her maternity dress before draping the scarf over her breast and gently removing the pacifier from Rose's mouth.
“There you go, darlin’. Drink up.” She spoke softly, before guiding Rose’s head to her nipple, allowing the baby to latch on, stroking her fine blonde hair as she drank her fill.
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted the moment with his sweet little daughter, Coriolanus, who appeared in the doorway still holding his work briefcase. He looked prim and proper as he always did– a deep red suit immaculate, and his blonde hair combed back perfectly. Every inch of him looked composed, yet she saw the possessive gleam that moved through his eyes once they landed on her.
Lucy Gray glanced up and flashed him a charming smile. She had grown used to his possessiveness; it had once unsettled her to her core. But she had eventually understood that it was his idea of love; he didn’t love like other men. Coriolanus wasn’t like most other men to begin with. He loved owning things; the deep satisfaction of being in control was a feeling that couldn’t be replicated for him.
“Hello, sugar,” She hummed, before her eyes dropped back to Rose feeding in her arms. “You’re back home earlier than I thought you’d be.”
Coriolanus didn’t linger in the doorway for long. How could he? With his songbird and his daughter merely inches away. He crossed the room unhurriedly, the way he did everything. His free hand naturally drifted down to her enlarged belly once he reached her.
“Well, some meetings ended earlier than I anticipated,” He responded, his gaze moving over her with the familiar gleam. “Have you had a nice day?”
The true motive behind his question was never lost on Lucy Gray, he didn’t ask because he was curious. He asked because he enjoyed hearing her talk about the lovely and lavish things he had provided for her. It brought him pleasure to hear her talk about the beautiful new dress he paid Tigris to make her, or the delicious cake she had gotten to eat that day and how thoroughly she had enjoyed it. He wanted confirmation, warm and willing, that everything he had done for her was appreciated.
He wanted to know she was grateful, that she was content with everything he had provided.
It reminded him he was the one who gave her those things– that fact mattered enormously to him. He had been the one to bring her to the Capitol from District 12; he had been the one to give her all the pretty things a woman like her deserved. The dresses, the food, the material items. He had been the one to save her from the impoverished life she was destined for in the Districts, performing for scraps for the rest of her life.
She decided that today she would oblige, placing her warm hand over his where they rested on her belly. His fingers were ice cold, as they always were. Just like his insides. “Well, darling.” She began, her voice easy and melodic. The way it always was when she performed contentment rather than feeling it. “I had a nice, warm bath and then I picked up that nice dress that Tigris made for Clemmy.”
Coriolanus nodded stiffly, “Where are Clementine and Benjie?” He inquired about their eldest two children, eyes moving around briefly as if they would pop out from hiding. The hand that had been resting on her belly dropped to his side.
He never called his children by their full covey names, Clementine Marigold, Benjie Caspian and Rose Aurelia– Lucy Gray fought incredibly hard for their names. It was one of the very few battles against Coriolanus that she won, and it had not been easy. He had given in eventually, albeit not happily. She knew their names sat poorly with him; he would’ve much preferred to scrub her clean of the districts entirely. But no matter how long she stayed in the Capitol, she would be Covey.
“They’re in the toy room,” Lucy Gray spoke, glancing up at him once again. “Told them mama had to feed their baby sister.” A beat of quiet followed, filled by only the gentle creak of the rocking chair and the faint, distant sounds of Clementine and Benjie occupying themselves down the hall– Their giggles and chatter, the soft thuds of their feet hitting the wooden floors.
“They also had a good day, I suppose?” He asked, placing his briefcase on the floor beside him.
Rose finally let go of her nipple, indicating she'd had her fill and was finished. Lucy Gray slipped her arm back into the sleeve of her dress before shifting Rose against her shoulder. Patting softly and rhythmically against her tiny back, coaxing out whatever needed to come. Rose made a small, indignant sound against her neck before she settled– warm and milk-drunk.
“They did,” Lucy Gray responded simply, easing Rose down from her shoulder and into her arms to assess whether she was ready to be handed over to her father. “You know, Clemmy, spent the day dancing around and singing. And Benjie was buried in his toy trains.”
As she handed Rose over to him, she watched him take her with the same gentleness he reserved exclusively for his children. Something in him went oddly soft in a way it never did otherwise. Lucy Gray knew Coriolanus loved their children– she didn’t doubt that, but she knew it was the same love he had for everything that belonged to him.
Deep, certain and entirely conditional. They were his, and he loved them the way he loved all things that he owned. He saw their children as an extension of solely him; they carried his name, his legacy, his blood running through their veins. He often forgot they were also half hers, that the Covey ran just as surely through them as the Snow did.
Lucy Gray took the orange scarf off her chest and folded it slowly. Smoothing each fold with care before setting it on the wooden table beside the rocking chair. Then she braced herself and stood, which was its own ordeal at this stage. The weight of her belly shifting forward, her body negotiating the movement with a gracefulness she had long since stopped being embarrassed by.
She knew he watched. She also knew that some part of him enjoyed it– the evidence of her condition, the physical proof of what he had done. It was written large and unavoidable across her body. The songbird straightened up without comment, smoothed her dress down her stomach and said nothing.
“Clementine seems to enjoy her singing.” He stated, quite matter-of-factly. His eyes remained fixed on his songbird’s belly, Lucy Gray didn’t miss the tone in his voice, though. The thought of their daughter performing and singing just like her mother stirred feelings he hadn’t yet decided what to do with.
It was a reminder of where Lucy Gray had come from, who she would always be, no matter how many Capitol dresses he put her in or how many years had passed since the arena. She was a performer, a girl who sang her way out of death, who had danced to make ends meet back in twelve, who had charmed many rowdy, drunken crowds.
That girl lived on in his daughter, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it; it was out of his control, and he didn’t know how he felt about it.
“She does,” Lucy Gray said simply, moving slowly towards the door, “Picks it up quick, too. Better than I did at her age. You want me to call them over? Sure they’ll be happy to see their daddy.”
Coriolanus looked down at Rose for a moment before finally answering, “Yes,” He replied, “Send them in.”
Lucy Gray turned back toward the hallway and called out, her voice as easy and melodic as it usually was– especially when she spoke to the children, “Clemmy, Benjie. My darlings, your daddy is home.”
There was a beat of silence, and then she heard the thunder of small feet against the wooden floors. Clementine burst through the door first, her blonde ringlets flying, her wide eyes finding her father immediately. She was wearing the new dress Tigris had made her, a deep crimson almost identical to the colour of the suit her father was wearing. The skirt was full enough to flare when she spun, little cap sleeve and a neat bow at the back. Tigris had embroidered tiny flowers, pale as cream, against the red.
“Daddy!” Clementine Marigold skipped across the room toward him, her red skirt swishing. She wrapped her tiny arms around his legs without hesitation, tipping her head back and her chin resting against his thigh. She looked up at him with eyes the same pale shade as his, though hers were as cold as ice; hers were nothing but full of light.
“There’s my girl.” Coriolanus hummed; something in his voice always seemed to loosen when it came to the children. He shifted Rose carefully against his shoulder and reached down with his free hand to touch the top of Clementine’s head. Smoothing a blonde curl back from her face, he was fond of the fact that her hair was identical to his.
“Did you see my dress, daddy?” Clementine demanded, releasing his legs and spinning once, the red skirt fanning out around her, “Aunty Tigris made it! Mama took me to get it today.”
“I see it.” He acknowledged, “Very good.”
Clementine beamed as though he had said it was the finest dress in all of Panem, which to her amounted to the same thing. There was nothing his daughter desired more than his praise; she chased it the way any 4-year-old chased anything– wholeheartedly. The moment Coriolanus gave her his acceptance, she lit up from the inside out.
Benjie wasn’t far behind, appearing in the doorway a few steps after his sister. Benjie was much quieter and contemplative compared to Clementine; he and Rose were alike in their quietness; he enjoyed reading and playing with his toy trains. Still and focused in the way she never quite managed to be. A lot like his father in that regard, he stood for a moment– looking at his father with his wide, careful eyes. Before crossing the room and pressing himself against his father’s leg without a word, as though simply deciding that was where he needed to be.
Coriolanus looked down at him. “Benjie.”
Benjie tipped his head back the same way his sister had, his chin raised and waiting for his father to address him.
“Good day?”
The blonde-haired little boy considered this with the seriousness he brought to most questions, despite being 5 years old, “We built a fort,” he finally spoke, as though it were a matter of importance, “Clemmy knocked it down.”
“I did not!” Clementine said immediately, looking up from where she had begun her inspection of Rose’s tiny toes, her face contorted into profound offence.
“You did.”
“I barely touched it,” Clementine argued.
“It fell.” Benjie insisted.
“Daddy! Benjie is lying, I’m a good girl!” Clementine appealed to her father with both arms outstretched, lip wobbling with the injustice of it all.
Coriolanus regarded her for a moment with his unreadable calm expression,” Did you knock down the fort, Clementine?” His voice was even and serious, scary to any child: “Do not lie to me.”
“...I didn’t mean to,” Clementine said finally, in a very small and defeated voice.
“That isn’t what I asked, is it?”
Clementine looked at her perfectly polished Mary Janes in shame, “I did it.” She admitted, barely audible.
“Apologise to your brother,” Coriolanus commanded, “And then I want you both to go and tidy the toy room before supper. No arguments.” He let his gaze move between them, slow and certain. “I don’t want to hear about this again. I work very hard looking after Panem all day, Clementine. When I come home, I would like some peace.”
The songbird watched from the doorway. She kept her expression very neutral. He worked hard. He worked very hard, and he expected the world to arrange itself accordingly around that fact. The house quiet when he required quiet, obedient children when he needed obedience, a soft and warm wife to make him feel good about himself.
“Alright, my darlings.” Lucy Gray pushed off the door frame, one hand resting at her lower back. “Go do as your daddy says and clean up the toy room, then supper will be ready, and it’ll be time to wash up.”
Clementine, still slightly pink in the cheeks from her recent humiliation, nodded with great solemnity and took her brother’s hand in a manner of demonstrating to her father that she could truly be a good girl, almost desperate to earn his approval back.
Benjie allowed himself to be taken by the hand. He looked up at their mother as they passed her in the doorway. She smoothed a loose curl back from his forehead, her thumb brushing briefly against his cheek before she smiled at them.
Watching them disappear down the hallway, the sound of their small feet fading away. The songbird turned back to her husband. He was still holding Rose, one large hand spread across the baby’s back. His cold eyes were already back on Lucy Gray the moment the children were gone.
“Supper won’t be long.” She spoke, moving past him toward the door again.
“Lucy Gray.”
She paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder
He was looking at her the way he usually did when the children weren’t watching– the unguarded ownership, open and unapologetic, as though every inch of her belonged to him and he had no reason to pretend otherwise. Rose slept soundly against his shoulder, one tiny fist curled into the lapel of his deep red suit.
“Come here.” He instructed.
She considered him for a moment. This man she had married, this man whose children she carried and bore and raised, three already in the world and one more pressing insistently against her ribs. This man, who looked at her like she was something he had acquired and intended to keep.
Then she crossed the room to him, slowly and deliberately, the way she was with everything these days. And let him pull her in, Rose nestled warm and small between them, her sleeping face smooth and unknowing. Lucy Gray rested her hand on her belly and felt the baby shift beneath her palm, unhurried to enter this world anytime soon. His arm came around her with the ease of a man touching something that he knew was his.
“Do you recall what you said to me back in twelve, Lucy Gray?” He whispered in her ear, lips close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin. It unsettled her, even now. Unsettled her and unravelled her in equal measure the way he always had, the way she suspected he always would. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. It’s written in the stars.”
There was nothing said for a moment; she just stood there inside the circle of his arm. Rose slept between them, the fourth turning slowly beneath her ribs, the distant sound of Clementine and Benjie down the hall.
“I remember.”
Of course, she remembered; she had been a different girl back then. Full of a love she had believed was returned in kind. She had loved him purely, wholeheartedly, entirely unaware of the man she was truly getting herself entangled with the moment she stepped off that cargo train. She had seen what she wanted to see, or perhaps what he had allowed her to see. A man who saved her life.
She wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t sure some days what remained of her at all beneath the Capitol dresses, the swollen belly and the smile she maintained like an instrument she no longer played for pleasure. The covey girl from twelve who had sung her way out of the arena and straight into a cage so beautifully appointed she had almost mistaken it for a home.
It was then she understood with a clarity that had long since stopped surprising her that this was it. This was the shape of her life, every bit of it decided by him. There was no train back to twelve, no stage to disappear onto, no dark woods to vanish through. There was only this: his children inside these walls, his arm around her and his name sitting over her life.
The songbird was certain in the way of someone who has done their grieving and come out on the other side. There was no way out, there never had been. She understood that now the way you understand weather or gravity, not because you have made peace with it exactly, but because it is and always will be and arguing with it doesn't change a thing. Either way, he would have taken her. One way or another, by love or by force. He always would have won.
A bullet in the woods or a ring on her finger, and a baby in her belly. A grave back in twelve or a cage in the Capitol, lined with pretty things, children and that stupid orange scarf. He would have had her either way; he had simply ended up with the version where she was still alive and breathing.
She was his, written in the stars.