Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“No, it’s okay Rye. I understand. Yeah, we’ll try in the new year.” I rub my hand roughly across my face, as if I can wipe away the irritation. But he doesn’t hear it. “Merry Christmas to you and Leevy,” I tell my brother before we disconnect the call.

I make my way over to the tree in the corner of the room, surrounded by gaily-wrapped packages that I’ll yet again have to send out in the mail. It’s a shame to have sacrificed this majestic Douglas fir; I should have left it in the woods behind my house where it would have served a much more noble purpose than keeping me company. With a sigh, I snap the lights off. Blown glass balls reflect the glow of the dying fire. Beautiful, but yet again this year no one will see it. Ditto the boughs of greenery along the mantel. I haven’t bothered to hang a stocking in years. There’s no one to fill it.

It wasn’t always this way. When my parents were alive, Christmas meant huge family gatherings full of gifts and food, loud, boisterous. It was my favourite time of the year. But since they’ve been gone, my brothers and I have drifted further and further apart. I haven’t seen Brann in a few years now, he lives out on the coast; happy, it seems, to forget about the town where he grew up and all of the people in it. Rye is closer, only an hour and a half away, but his life is full. He, his wife and their boys were supposed to spend Christmas with me this year. But something came up.

Something always comes up.

So now I’m alone in my house with a fridge full of food that'll spoil before I can eat it, and no plans. Since my last romantic relationship ended more than two years ago, there's been no one at all to share the festive season with.

Or any season.

I have friends, wonderful friends. But they're all spending Christmas with their own families. And I don't want to burden them yet again. I’m always the extra plate at the table for Thanksgiving and Easter. I’m not going to intrude on their Christmas too.

The melancholy that infuses me is familiar. I’ve been alone far too long. Watched as my brothers and friends and neighbours partnered off, had children, built lives. Desperately wishing it were me.

But the odds are never in Peeta Mellark’s favour.

It’s late; I have to be up early to open the bakery. So I wander around the house, flipping off the lights. But when I get to the front I impulsively step out onto the porch.

The night is cold and moonless, only a few faint stars are visible through the cloud cover. It’s snowing, just gently. Fat flakes wink in my golden porch light. I've never felt as small as I do right now, standing on my tiny porch in the vast emptiness.

Never felt so lonely.

It's been a long time since I've believed in Santa Claus or wishing stars. Been a long time since I've believed in anything at all. But the small, sad, selfish part of me can't help sending a plea up to the heavens. Please don't let me be alone anymore . I have so much love in me, I just want to share it with someone. To take care of someone. To be needed.

No one really needs me.

I shake my head a little at the ridiculousness of a thirty year old man wishing on the night sky. Get it together, Peeta . Maybe Rye is right, maybe I’m too much of an idealist. Too much of a dreamer.

My hand hovers over the switch to the porch lamp. It’s wasteful to leave it burning, no one ever comes down this way, there are no other houses for miles. But the way the snowflakes catch the light is so beautiful. The snow won't stay; we haven't had a white Christmas in Victor’s Village in years. But for a few moments it's like being inside a snowglobe.

So I leave the light on. A little beacon in the lonely night. An invocation to the heavens. Please don’t forget about me.

Chapter Text

The car’s been making an ominous kind of noise for a hundred miles or so, but I’ve been ignoring it, hoping I’d make my destination before the old thing died.

But it seems the odds are never in Katniss Everdeen’s favour.

Clouds of black smoke belch from under the hood of my ancient Corolla as it comes to a lurching, shuddering halt on the side of a desolate road, three hundred miles from where I’m heading. Just the latest misfortune in a seemingly endless series. If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

I sit in the car in the darkness as long as I dare, head against the steering wheel, utterly disheartened. No other vehicles pass by; the silence is absolute. Frigid December air leaches away the warmth of the cabin; I know I can't stay put much longer. Freeze to death here or freeze to death trying to find help. Not much of a choice. The story of my life.

In the distance, I can just make out a light twinkling against the black velvet night. A house, probably. Warmth and a phone, I hope.

My coat no longer closes completely over the swell of my distended belly, but I clutch the fabric edges across my body as best I can. With a last glance at the duffel bag and single cardboard box that contain the sum of my life, I set out.

The walk across barren frost-tipped fields is so much longer than I'd imagined, and the back pain that has plagued me all day gets worse with each step. Fat snowflakes flutter and swirl, kissing my bare fingers, nipping my cheeks. But I keep my eyes forward, concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, step by step.

By the time my tiny beacon of hope has transformed into a tidy house, I’m utterly exhausted and frozen to the bone. Three small steps up to a wide porch feel insurmountable, and I barely have enough strength to knock on the door. I have no idea what I’ll do if no one answers.

But someone does answer my late night summons. The door opens, and golden light spills from within, silhouetting the figure of a man. Shining through his ashy blond curls, haloing him. I can do nothing but slump against the doorframe in relief. “I'm sorry,” I mumble, closing my eyes against the exhaustion. “My car.”

“Dear God, you're frozen,” a deep baritone rings through the haze. Firm hands support me, guide me inside, out of the cold. “Are you injured?” he asks softly. I shake my head, too tired to speak. Too tired even to be afraid.

He sits me by a stone fireplace, wrapping a heavy woolen blanket around my shoulders before stoking the flames. It isn't until the radiant heat starts chasing the numbness from my limbs, ushering the welcome ache of warming blood flow through my extremities, that I really look at my host. He’s kneeling before me, bright blue eyes crinkled in concern. Young, though older than my own twenty-two years. Medium height, broad and strong looking, but dressed in a robe thrown over flannels. Clearly I’ve woken him. “I'm so sorry to have disturbed you,” I whisper. “My car broke down, on Route Twelve.” His eyes widen.

“You walked all the way from the main road?” At my nod he shakes his head. “That's more than three miles! Is there anyone else waiting back in your car?”

“No, I'm alone.” His eyes soften, as if he can sense the deeper truth of my words. Alone .

“I'm Peeta,” he says, holding out his hand. “Peeta Mellark.”

“K-Katniss Everdeen” I stutter. He flinches when my icy hand grasps his.

“Let's get you warmed up,” he says softly. “Would you like some coffee?” He glances down at my belly, taking note of my situation. “Or maybe some tea?”

I don’t want to inconvenience this kind stranger any more than I already have. “No, I couldn't. I've already imposed too much.”

“Hot chocolate?” He tries.

A warm breath of nostalgia flows through me, memories of shared cups of hot chocolate with my little sister, Prim, in another lifetime. It’s been years since I’ve even tasted it. The stranger grins at my expression. “Hot chocolate it is.” And he’s gone before I can protest.

I’ve almost fallen asleep when he returns, lulled by the warmth of the fire, the comfort of a deep armchair. But his footfalls are heavy, slightly uneven, foreign. I open my eyes to find him setting a tray on the table beside me, two steaming mugs of hot cocoa and a plate set with thick slices of warm, fragrant bread, lavishly buttered. My stomach clenches painfully at the sight. “Go ahead, please,” he says softly, pressing the mug into my trembling hands.

The ceramic warmth bleeds into my fingers, and I have to bite my lip against the tears that threaten. The liquid within is the perfect temperature, not too hot, the first sip sweet and creamy. I can’t help but sigh, and Peeta smiles gently. “Where are you heading, Mrs. Everdeen?” he asks.

“Oh, uh, it’s Miss. I'm uh. I'm not married.” My cheeks burn, the familiar shame of being hugely, obviously pregnant and single. But his kind expression doesn't change. “But please, call me Katniss.” A faint smile tugs at his lips, and he nods slightly. “I'm heading to the Capitol. M-my uncle lives there.” Or I hope he still does. I’ve never met the man, have nothing but a yellowing page from my mother’s address book and a prayer. Peeta frowns.

“That's another five hours, at least. You were going to drive straight through?” I nod. I didn’t have much choice. “I'm afraid you're not going to make it this evening,” he continues. As if to punctuate his words, a small clock on the mantel chimes ten. “You can stay here tonight, if you want. I have plenty of space.”

“Oh, I…” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Then tomorrow we can try to figure out your car. All right?”

“What about your family?” It’s Peeta's turn to blush, I watch the rosy tint rise in the firelight.

“I have a brother in the city,” he says, “but I'm alone out here.”

“You must be so lonely,” I blurt without thinking. In the miles long walk across winter-barren fields I hadn't seen even a hint of another house, another soul. He smiles softly.

“I'm not tonight,” he says, gracing me with a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. “Now please, eat.”

The bread is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted, hearty and studded with raisins and nuts. Life-sustaining. It’s the only thing I’ve eaten all day apart from the weak coffee and stale doughnut I grabbed at the first gas station, hours and hours ago.

“Would you like to call your uncle? Let him know you're okay?” Peeta nods towards an old-fashioned rotary phone.

I press my lips tightly together, a wave of hopelessness threatening to overcome me. “He, uh.” I sigh, I have no choice but to be honest with this kind stranger. “He’s not expecting me tonight.” Or at all. Tears prick the corners of my eyes and I stare at the fire, willing them to dissipate.

“Oh. Is there someone back home you need to call?” His voice is kind, concerned. It makes fighting the tears even more difficult. Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there. I simply shake my head. He nudges the plate of bread, now half-empty, towards me. “You must be starving, after such a long walk.” I am, but I take the bread more to keep from having to talk.

“This is absolutely wonderful,” I tell him after a few minutes of silence. “This bread, I've never tasted anything like it.”

“Thank you,” Peeta says. “It's a good seller at the bakery during the winter.” At my confused expression, he smiles. “I, well. I own a little bakery in town. About fifteen miles further on down route Twelve.”

“Oh. That’s why you were already in bed.” I flush anew, having rudely called attention to his pyjamaed state. But he merely nods.

“Yeah, baker’s hours.”

“I'm keeping you up.” This kind, gentle man will surely suffer at work tomorrow for having had his rest disrupted. But he merely grins.

“Fringe benefit of being the boss? I can go in whenever I want. It'll be fine,” he assures me. But I still feel terrible.

Peeta tells me a little about his bakery; I'm captivated by descriptions of the things he bakes there, things I've never tasted or even seen. He’s nice to listen to, but the stress of the day and the long walk are getting to me. Warm, and with a full stomach for the first time in a long time, my eyelids are incredibly heavy. He notices. “You’re exhausted,” he says softly. “Let me show you to your room.” He rises from his seat and holds out a hand. I take it with some reluctance. I hate relying on anyone for help. But it’s awkward getting out of chairs these days. He seems to understand that.

I flinch as I heft myself up with his help. “You’re hurt?”

“No, it’s just that my back is sore, from sitting in the car so long.” I stagger a little, climbing the steep stairs. His hand on the small of my back keeps me steady. “I left the Seam early this morning,” I admit as we reach the landing. His expression falls.

“You drove all day? In your condition?” I bristle a little, as if being eight months pregnant makes me frail, or incapable.

“I can take care of myself,” I huff. I’ve been doing it for years now.

“Of course you can. You just shouldn’t have to.”

“Yeah, well I’m not exactly surrounded by alternatives,” I grumble, then wince as I realize he heard my words. Exhaustion has clearly loosened my filter.

“You are tonight,” he says, completely without sarcasm.

“You don’t even know me, Peeta.”

“I hope to change that,” he says with a bashful smile. “I’d like to be your friend, if you’ll allow it. Here we are.” He directs me into a bedroom, warm and cozy. A wrought iron bed stands in the centre, covered with a colourful patchwork quilt. An antique dresser off to one side. “The bathroom is over there,” he says, “and I’m just down the hall.”

I'm sure he says more before retreating, but I don't hear it. Instead, I stand awestruck in this perfect little space, not large but still easily twice the size of the room I've been living in at the boarding house back in the Seam. It's clean and homey and so very welcoming that I can't contain the tears.

“I brought you some - oh.” Peeta stops at the sight of my tears. “Katniss? Are you all right? What is it?”

“You have a beautiful home,” I try to say, but it sounds like a sob.

“Thank you?” He's confused. “I ah. I brought you some pyjamas.” He sets a folded stack on the bed, a fluffy white towel and a pile of plaid flannel similar to what he's wearing now. My restraint snaps, before I even realize it I'm hugging him.

There's the briefest of hesitations before his arms wrap around me, not half-hearted like an uncomfortable acquaintance, but strong and steady. Comforting.

I sob into his shoulder, this stranger who has shown me more kindness in one evening than I've seen in the three years my family’s been gone. I feel his hand stroking my hair, sense the soothing murmur of words I can't make out.

Since they died, no one has held me like this. I didn't realize just how starved I’ve been for human closeness. Gale was there for me, after. But his brand of comfort came with strings.

I stiffen at that realization, and Peeta must feel it because he pulls back just a bit. His arms remain firmly around me, but he searches my face, so close that I can see the freckles that dot the bridge of his nose.

I don't trust easily, and I have no reason to trust this stranger, this man who has me in his isolated house far away from any form of civilization. But his gaze is steady, his face completely open.

“I'm sorry,” I sniffle. “I'm not usually so weepy. But it's been a hell of a day.” It’s been a hell of a few years, actually. But he doesn’t need to hear my sob story. I step out of his arms with reluctance. But he surprises me, catching my hand and squeezing.

“If you want to talk, I'm a good listener,” he says. A puff of a watery laugh escapes me, and he smiles. “I'll let you get changed.”

I can hear Peeta puttering downstairs as I wash my splotchy face and change into his pyjamas. The waistband won't stretch over my stomach, but the top is long enough to be a dress. Both are infinitely softer than the ragged sweater and stretched-out sweatpants that have been my uniform lately. There was no money for maternity clothes. There wasn’t enough for food and rent, how could I justify special clothing I’d only be able to wear a couple of months anyway?

The thought of money makes my knees buckle, and I sit heavily on the bed. Every penny I’ve managed to save is tucked carefully into my purse, and it’s a depressingly small amount. Enough, I hope, for some cloth diapers and a couple of infant sleepers. Not much else. I’ve pinned all of my hopes on my mother’s brother taking pity on his niece, and soon to be grand-niece-or-nephew. If he can’t - or won’t - help me, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m homeless, and now carless. Gale’s been gone since we found out about the pregnancy, he had far too much on his plate to deal with an ill-timed baby. I couldn’t even be angry with him. I didn’t love him, he didn’t love me. We’d been dating more for the convenience of it, a partnership built on survival. So when he left, all I really felt was relief.

A soft tap on the doorframe catches my attention. Peeta, holding another mug and wearing a look of amusement. “You’re swimming in those clothes,” he laughs, and I can’t help but grin back. “I brought you something, to help you sleep,” he says, setting the mug on the bedside table. “Warm milk, my father’s secret recipe, with a touch of honey and a pinch of spice.” I want to laugh, the very idea, warm milk. But he’s so earnest. And it does sound amazing.

“Thank you,” I tell him, but wince as my back twinges yet again. His brow furrows.

“Are you sure you're okay?” I nod, but he still looks concerned. “If you need anything, just call. Okay?”

“Thank you, Peeta,” I say, quite belatedly. He just smiles, looks happy, in spite of a stranger waking him in the night and taking over his guest room.

“Good night, Katniss.” He leaves the door half open, padding down the hall.

I climb under the covers, am enveloped in cool sheets, whisper soft and clean. The mattress is plush and comfortable. It's almost enough to start me crying again. I've never in my life slept in such a nice bed.

Though I can hear Peeta getting ready for bed, I’m struck by how quiet this house is. The boarding house that was my home - if you can call it that - for the past three years was never quiet. With more than a dozen other people under the same roof there was always banging, a television blaring, someone screaming. Day or night. And as much as I hated the noise, craved silence, the quiet here is a little frightening. I flick off the lamp, fluff the pillow, wiggle around to get as comfortable as my aching back will allow. Sip at the milk he’s left for me - delicious, warm and soothing. But nothing diminishes my unease.

So when I hear his footfalls heading towards his own room, I call out to him.

Peeta peeks in, but I find myself tongue-tied with shyness. “Can't sleep?” he asks, kindly.

“It's so quiet,” I mumble, and he smiles. Exhausted though he might be, he smiles at me. As if I'm not the biggest pain in his ass. “Will you talk with me? Just for a few minutes?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, and his eyes light up with something I can’t quite interpret.

There are no chairs in this perfect little room, so he perches on the very edge of the bed. “Tell me about you,” I ask, and he chuckles.

“There’s not a lot to tell,” he says softly. But he talks, his rich voice melodic, soothing. He tells me about growing up here, in this very house. About his parents, now gone, and his brothers, also gone but differently. It makes me sad for him; he’s an orphan too, as alone on this big old planet as I am. Yet where I’m perpetually angry and dispirited, he’s kind and hopeful, intent on making my world a better place, at least for this evening. Tears slip down my face in the dim, and I silently thank my lucky stars for having encountered him. To the cadence of words, I start to drift off.

The bed shifting startles me half-awake. Peeta, getting up to leave. “Are you an angel?” It slips out against my better judgement. But he doesn’t laugh at me.

“I was going to ask you the same question,” he whispers. “Sweet dreams, Katniss.”

Chapter Text

Despite my late night, I’m up long before dawn. After all of these years in the bakery, I’m not sure I could sleep in anymore.

After I dress, I pad out into the hallway. The door to Katniss’s room is still partly opened, I can’t resist looking in on her. She’s asleep, the hall light spills across her face where it just peeks out from her nest of pillows and blankets.

She’s a beautiful woman. Perhaps not conventionally so, but with her smooth olive skin, straight black hair and those shocking silver eyes, she’s exotic. Mesmerizing. I’m not foolish enough to believe that she was actually sent as an answer to my heartsick prayer. But a small part of me can’t help wishing. And she did keep me from being lonely, if only for an evening.

Even in sleep, her brow is pinched in discomfort. She slept restlessly; I heard her tossing and turning nearly all night. Not that she was loud, she certainly wasn’t. But after so many years alone, the noise was unfamiliar.

Though not unpleasant. Not at all. I love hearing something other than my own thoughts.

But her pain worries me. And so do her circumstances. How can it be that this young woman, so heavily pregnant, is driving across multiple states all alone - and in winter no less? And it seems like wherever it is she’s heading, she’s not even expected?

I steal one last glance at Katniss before heading downstairs to make coffee. I was serious when I told her that a perk of being the boss is I can make my own hours. Mitchell can open the bakery just fine without me. In fact, he’ll probably enjoy the peace and quiet without me underfoot.

So I set to work baking in my own kitchen. Not for my customers, but for the lovely young stranger in my guest room. I know she’ll want to be on her way as quickly as possible, but damned if I’m going to let her leave without a proper meal. I certainly didn’t miss that despite her large belly, her collarbones were sharp above the loose neckline of my pyjama top.

The memory of her drowning in my clothing makes me smile.

I’m just taking the cinnamon buns out of the oven when she appears soundlessly in the kitchen doorway. It’s still early, the sun only just teasing the horizon, but she’s already redressed in her clothing from yesterday. “Good morning, Katniss,” I greet her, but I frown a little at her pinched expression. “You’re still hurting.” It’s not a question; she’s pale, trembling, biting her lip.

“I’m okay,” she says, but it’s clearly a lie. “I guess I shouldn’t have driven so long,” she admits, grudgingly. I can see she doesn’t want to appear weak in front of me.

“Sit,” I tell her, pulling out a chair at my small kitchen table, and she doesn’t argue. “Would you like some orange juice?” Her eyes betray her, lighting up before she can decline.

As I pour two glasses, I wonder why she’s so hesitant to take my hospitality, so guarded. But the thought flies away when I see her expression at the first sip. She looks blissful, like I’ve given her the moon instead of a couple of ounces of Florida’s finest.

She flushes when she sees me gawking. “I haven’t had real orange juice in a very long time,” she admits. “Not since I was a child.”

“Have as much as you like,” I tell her, my voice thick. I turn back to the stove, busy myself frying up eggs and sausage, try to calm my pounding heart. There’s just something about her…

We make conversation while I cook and she devours a cinnamon bun. The weather, her favourite Christmas carols, light-hearted, easy things. I tell her about my two nephews, Leo and Linus, and when I glance back at her she’s looking at me oddly, an expression I can only call melancholy painting her lovely features.

“Do you, ah, know what you’re having? The baby, I mean,” I ask as I set two plates on the table. We’ve talked a fair bit about me, but I know nothing about her apart from her name and the town she’s from. She shakes her head, clams up entirely, and we eat in silence.

By the time we’ve finished eating I judge it late enough to call Thom, my closest neighbour. He has a towbar on his truck and enough mechanical acumen to hopefully be able to tell me what’s wrong with Katniss’s car.

I grab my coat after hanging up the receiver, and Katniss moves to join me, but I can see how uncomfortable she is, how nearly every step she winces. “Katniss, I have no idea how long it’ll take Thom to hook your car up, and it’s awfully cold out. I - I’d feel better if you waited here.” I don’t mean to sound so paternalistic, but I’m genuinely concerned about how much pain she’s in, and with another five hours of driving, at least, in front of her I’d like to spare her any additional hardship. She looks like she wants to argue, defiance shining in her silver orbs. “Please,” I say softly. I’m more than a little surprised when she agrees with a curt nod. I thought I’d have to fight harder to get her to acquiesce.

By the time I find Katniss’s car, Thom is already there, and I can’t help but shudder when I think about her walking all this way, alone in the dark last night. In the daylight, you can’t even see my house from here. If I hadn’t left the porch light on….

“Peeta!” Thom calls, shaking my hand before I’ve even closed my own car door. “Come on over and take a look at this.” He’s already got the hood open on the battered orange car that must belong to Katniss, listing slightly on the gravel shoulder, shrouded in frost.

He points out several things in the engine, but I can’t pretend to understand half of it. “It’s bad?” I ask, but even with my limited mechanical knowledge I’m fairly sure it is. I can smell the burnt rubber stench of expensive repairs. My heart sinks.

“Yeah,” he says. “And an old piece of junk like this, I’m not sure it’d be worth fixin’ anyway.” Trust Thom to tell it like it is. But this isn’t my car, and it isn’t my decision. So I shrug. He fixes me with a speculative look. “It’s like that, is it?” he asks, though I’ve said nothing. “All right then. I’ll haul this back to the garage, see what I can do. Might have some parts lying around.”

“I know you’re busy,” I start, but he waves me off.

“I’ve got some time this mornin’. I’ll call you after lunch, okay?” And I nod again. I know he’s doing this as a favour to me. But if I fawn, he’ll get all embarrassed. Instead, I move around to look inside Katniss’s car. If she’s going to be stuck with me awhile longer, I should see if she’s got an overnight bag or something.

On the backseat there’s a duffle bag, and a cardboard box, open at the top and overflowing. Given it’s the holidays, it would make sense to have a large box full of presents in your car while driving across several states. But these clearly aren’t presents.

Books and bedding, framed family pictures, old kitchenware, even a small, tarnished silver mirror. If I had to guess, I might think these were all of her worldly possessions. All in this dishearteningly small box. I hope I’m wrong.

Thom leans in the other side of the car, catching my eye, looking pensive. “I’ll toss this into your car,” he says softly, hefting the shabby duffle bag up onto his shoulder.

“Thank you, Thom,” is all I trust myself to say. I’ll bring him some Christmas goodies from my overflowing pantry later, but it’ll be a small repayment for the gift of his time and understanding.

When I get home, ladened with Katniss’s things, I find her curled up in front of the fire. Her glossy black hair is damp and freshly braided, she looks calmer, refreshed. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says softly. “I used your shower.”

“Not at all,” I tell her. She frowns as I set her box beside the hearth, her bag beside it.

“My car?”  

“Thom towed it over to his garage. He’s going to look at it now. Afraid you’re stuck with me a little longer.” She’s chewing on her bottom lip, looking worried.

“I…” she starts. “Did he, um. I mean. Well. Will it be very expensive?” Her voice is scarcely a whisper, if I hadn’t been staring right at her I might not have heard her at all. But there’s no mistaking her fear.

“He thinks he’s got some spare parts that’ll work,” I tell her. It’s not quite the truth, but I decide that whatever it costs I’ll cover it. I can’t stand the thought of this lovely, frightened young woman having anything else to worry about. She’s clearly got enough on her plate already. “He should have some news after lunch.” The way her shoulders drop, the relief that paints her features. I know I’ve made the right choice. “So,” I smile. “How do you feel about board games?”

I make tea and bring out a plate of Christmas shortbread. “Peeta,” she says sternly, though not before looking at the cookies with what can only be called longing. “You have to stop wasting all of your food on me!”

“Katniss,” I say in the most reasonable tone I can manage. “First off, it wouldn’t be wasting. And second, if we don’t eat it no one else will. And that truly would be a waste.” She looks confused, So with a sigh I tell her about Rye and his perpetually broken promises, about my overflowing pantry and empty house. She glances at the gaily wrapped gifts under the tree and frowns.

“I’m sorry, Peeta,” she says.

“You’re doing me a favour, keeping me company.” I tell her. “Otherwise I’d be awfully lonely.”

She smiles shyly at me.

Over multiple games of Chinese checkers and Monopoly (in which she beats me handily over and over) we talk. She laughs at my stories, and it’s the most magical sound. Though she’s still guarded, she starts to open up a little to me.

It’s when she tells me about her job waiting tables back in the Seam that I interject. “Isn’t that hard, being on your feet all day when you’re pregnant?” It’s the tiny elephant in the room, each time I’ve mentioned her pregnancy she’s shut down. But this time she holds my eyes.

“It was a little I guess. But I could have kept going. I’m stronger than I look.” I have absolutely no doubt about that. “They fired me anyway.”

“No!” I’m horrified, they fired her just for being pregnant? She shrugs, and changes the subject.

As we talk and play I notice how much her back is still bothering her, how from time to time she winces, has to stop what she’s doing to wait out a spasm. She tries to hide it from me, but she’s not a very good actress. “Katniss,” I say softly. “Your backache is getting worse.”

She lifts those sharp eyes to mine, but after a moment they soften. “Yeah, you’re right.” She chews on her bottom lip, I’ve observed her enough now to know that means she’s trying to decide whether to share something with me. So I wait. I can be very patient. “I know I shouldn’t have driven so long yesterday. But I didn’t really have another choice. I, well. I need to find my uncle.”

Before I can comment on the strangeness of that word choice, find, she screws her face up in obvious pain, clutching the edge of the table. “Oh, Katniss.” There are tears in the corners of her eyes and her breathing is rough. “I - can I try something?” She nods wearily. I can see the pain is wearing her down. “Come here,” I say, offering her a hand.

I guide her over to the couch, encourage her to lie in her side, facing away from me. She looks so fearful - hands fisted, poised to attack. How different her life must be from mine to be so heartbreakingly untrusting.

She stiffens at the first press of my fingers into the tense muscles of her lower back, but gradually she relaxes. We don’t speak as I knead her lower back, listen to her breathing hitch, then finally even out as she falls asleep.

I grab a blanket and tuck it around her, brush back the hair that’s come loose from her braid. A powerful swell of affection washes over me for this woman, so strong and yet underneath so vulnerable. I find myself selfishly hoping she’ll stay a little longer. The last few hours in her company I’ve been truly happy, for the first time in a very long time.

A little over an hour later, I’m kneading dough to make the hearty bread with raisins and nuts that Katniss seemed to like so much last night, and humming Christmas carols, when I realize I’m not alone.

Katniss is leaning against the doorframe, crossed arms resting on the swell of her belly. She’s smiling, just a little, eyes locked on the mass of dough in front of me. Watching my hands with interest. When she realizes I’ve noticed her, a pretty flush climbs her throat to tease her cheeks. “Hi,” I grin at her. “Want to bake bread with me?”

I’m surprised when she tells me she’s never made bread before, can’t remember having anything other than supermarket white bread before last night. But I teach her how to knead the dough, and she smiles and even laughs at the sticky feeling of it between her fingers. And with her attention occupied by flouring the counter and shaping loaves, she lets her guard down a little more. Talks about a childhood poor in money but rich in love.  

While the loaves bake, we have lunch - cold ham, mashed potatoes and Rye’s favourite green bean casserole. It’s nice to see someone enjoying it after all. She’s an absolute pleasure to talk to, warm and witty. But every minute that passes brings her departure closer. I know Thom will be calling soon. And the idea of never seeing Katniss again fills me with such melancholy. Despite only having known her a day, I feel an incredible connection to her.

She insists on doing the dishes, despite my protests. Standing side by side in my kitchen, drying while she washes, I can’t remember the last time something felt so right.

I’m laughing at one of her stories when she stops suddenly, a hand on her belly and a wide smile on her face. “The baby likes your voice,” she says shyly. “It hasn’t been moving much the past couple of days, but it’s been wiggling like crazy listening to you.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, and reaches for my hand, pressing it firmly against her stomach. The responding thump-thump of a tiny foot or fist is far stronger than I’d expected. I’m in awe. “Wow,” I whisper, and Katniss grins.

I know I should pull my hand away, but I can’t. It’s utterly miraculous, this little unborn being interacting with me, reacting to the warmth of my hand and the sound of my laughter. I felt my friend Delly’s baby kicking a couple of times, but that was years ago, and it wasn’t like this. Eventually, reluctantly, I let my hand fall away. “Thank you, Katniss,” I tell her. “That was incredible.”

“I’ve uh. I’ve never really gotten to share that with anyone,” she admits softly. “My, uh. The baby’s father. He, well.” She sighs. “He was gone long before I could feel her moving.”

“Does he know?” I shouldn’t ask, not when she’s being so open. I don’t want to risk her shutting down again. But she merely nods. And my heart breaks for her. Abandoned by her baby’s father, someone she must have loved and expected to build a family with. No wonder she’s so guarded.

The phone rings before I can ask her anything else, and I curse Thom’s timing. Katniss, too, seems saddened by the jangling interruption. In the half dozen steps between my kitchen and the telephone, my heart plummets. This call means that Katniss is leaving, just when we were really starting to get to know each other.

But it isn’t good news, at least not for Katniss’s travel plans. “I needed to order a part from Arena,” Thom admits. “I asked Dalton to drive it down right away, but tomorrow morning was the best he could do.”

I thank him and hang up the phone, turning with reluctance to where I know Katniss is standing behind me. “He can’t have your car fixed until tomorrow,” I tell her, cutting right to the heart of it. “I’m so sorry,” I say when I see her face fall. “I - I could drive you out to the Capitol, and you could arrange for your uncle to come back for your car?” It’s about five hours away, a ten hour round trip that would have me home by midnight at the earliest. But tomorrow is Christmas Eve, I imagine she’s anxious to see her family.

But instead of the pleased reaction I’m expecting to my offer, she looks anxious, upset. “Or,” I hedge, trying to keep the hope out of my voice. “You could stay another night, help me make a dent in that pile of perishables in my refrigerator?”

“You’ve done too much already,” she murmurs, but I shake my head.

“Katniss, it’s been so nice having you here. You were right when you said I must be lonely. I have been. You, well…” I flush, knowing how stupid it sounds but needing to say it anyway. “Your company has been like a Christmas gift for me.” The only one I wanted. She scowls, and it’s all kinds of adorable. “Stay,” I say softly. “Please.”

When she agrees I can’t keep the goofy grin off my face.

We spend the afternoon cooking, side by side, preparing a feast far too large for two people, but still hardly making a dent in everything I’d bought for Christmas. I pull out The Carpenters Christmas album and Katniss bounces with glee, singing along to the scratchy record in a voice rich and smokey, so gorgeous that I stop to gape, hardly breathing. I swear even the chickadees outside my window fall silent to enjoy her soulful rendition of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. She blushes when the song ends, but her smile stays in place. And I’m a goner.

After a huge meal we sit on the couch, in front of the fire, playing cards. She lets me win a few hands, once she realizes I’m hopeless. I can’t help it, how can I concentrate on the game when she’s sitting so close, bathed in firelight and smiling at me?

When she asks, so shyly, if I’ll turn on the Christmas tree lights, I beam. She stands beside me as I flick the switch, gasping like a child when the coloured lights start glowing. She reaches for my hand, our fingers twine together so naturally it takes me by surprise how right it feels. “It’s been a few years since I’ve had a Christmas tree,” she admits, watching the lights reflect off the tinsel garlands. “But they always have a big one outside the Justice Building, and I like to walk up and look at the lights.”

“There’s one in the square in Victor’s Village too, I can see if from my bakery,” I whisper.

She turns to face me, her hand still clasped in mine. “Thank you for today, Peeta,” she says. “I - I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.”

“Me either,” I smile. “The pleasure has been all mine.”

I guide her back to the couch, and we face each other, still holding hands. “Are you going to the Capitol just for Christmas,” I ask her, though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer. She shakes her head.

“No, I was planning to stay there awhile. Until the baby is born at least.” There’s something in the way she says it that makes me feel like she’s not telling me the whole truth. But I’m not going to push her, not when she’s being so open. She sighs. “The Seam is no place to raise a baby.”

“Do you think, I mean, would it be okay if I wrote to you? Or called you on the telephone sometimes?”

“Really?” she says, uncertainty painting her features. “You’d want to talk to me?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “I would really like to be friends, Katniss.” I’d really like a chance to court her, in the future. If she’d allow it. And if her family doesn’t have other plans for her. But it seems a little forward to tell her that now, when she’s trapped here. She looks at me with silver eyes wide and guileless, and I can’t stop myself from saying the rest of what I’m thinking. “I, well. I like you, Katniss.”

“Me?” At my nod, she drops her eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m starting to. I know you’re strong and smart and… and beautiful.”

“But I'm…” she trails off and gestures to her abdomen.

“Yes, I know,” I chuckle.

“I’m keeping my baby,” she says softly.

“I’m glad. You’re going to be an excellent mother.”

We fall silent, but her small hand in mine gives me hope.

It isn’t long before her eyes start to droop. I’m exhausted too. We walk upstairs together, she clings to my hand even in the narrow stairwell. And when she finally lets go, standing at the door to her room, I feel cold from the loss.

But she stands up on her toes and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Good night, Peeta,” she murmurs. And I practically float down the hall to my own room.

Sometime in the night I hear crying. It takes a moment for my brain to awaken enough to understand. It’s Katniss. Sobbing. I climb out of bed, heart pounding.

I find her standing just inside the bathroom. She’s wearing my pyjama top again, but her slender legs are bare, and she’s shivering. Her eyes are wide and frantic, she’s crying so hard that she’s practically hyperventilating. “Are you okay?” I ask, idiotically. “What is it?” I want to reach out and touch her, but she’s so tense, so afraid, that I don’t want to make things worse.

“My water broke.” She can barely get the words out. It almost feels like my eyes will fall out of my head once I register what she’s said, and what it means. She’s having her baby. Now.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “We have to get you to the hospital.” I turn, intending to gather her things, take her out to my car.

“No!” She shrieks, stopping me in my tracks. “I can’t go to the hospital!”

“I’ll take you, it’ll be okay, you don’t have to worry,” I tell her. But she shakes her head.

“I don’t have health insurance, and I can’t pay.” I frown, I wonder how she’s been getting prenatal care then.

“They won’t turn you away,” I start, but she cuts me off.

“You don’t understand!” She’s on the edge of hysteria; clearly I don’t. “I’m unmarried and broke and I’m homeless, they’ll never let me keep my baby! They’ll call me unfit, take it away, and I’ll be alone. That’s - that’s why I left the Seam.” She covers her face with trembling hands.

I can barely breathe. Homeless. Alone. “Your family?” I whisper.

“Dead,” she says, the words only slightly muffled by her hands. “Three years ago. Car accident.” Her voice breaks, along with my heart.

“And your uncle?” Even before I ask, I have a good idea what she’s going to say.

Her hands fall limply to her sides. “I’ve never met him. I found his name in my mother’s address book. I was hoping he’d take pity on me.” Her face screws up as if she’s tasted something foul. Perhaps she has, in a way. From everything I’ve seen so far, I can tell she’s not someone who takes charity easily. Not a woman who wants to be in debt.

She’s probably right about what would happen if she showed up at a hospital here alone. Life might be different in the Capitol, more progressive. But Victor’s Village is pretty firmly stuck in the past. I won’t let that happen to her. I won’t let them take her baby, or shame her for her situation. I’ll protect her, if she’ll allow it.

“Listen,” I say, moving as close as I dare. She lifts her reddened eyes to mine, defeat plain on her face. “I can help. I - I want to help. Please let me help you, okay? You’re not alone, not anymore.” Relief flows through me when she nods.

Find all of the Everlark Advent stories here.

Chapter Text

I’m freaking out so much I can barely breathe. The beautiful meal Peeta prepared sits like a rock in my gut, threatening to make a reappearance. This isn’t supposed to be happening. The books I read at the Seam library said my baby wasn’t due until the end of January. I was supposed to have time!

And now I’m standing in a stranger’s bathroom, soaked with amniotic fluid and shame. Terrified.

Though he doesn’t feel like a stranger. Not anymore.

He’s looking at me pleadingly, almost begging me to accept his help. I don't understand why. I've been nothing but a problem to him, but he keeps giving and giving, and he hasn’t asked for a single thing in return. It goes against my every instinct to accept help from him, to let myself - and my baby - be this vulnerable to someone I don’t know. But what choice do I have? At least Peeta won't turn me over to family services. I trust him.

I trust him .

It's that realization that makes me suck in a deep breath and lift my eyes to his. “Okay,” I tell him. It comes out as more of a groan than a word. But he smiles tentatively.

He leaves me to get cleaned up in privacy, for which I'm grateful. I don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my entire life.

I'm half in a daze as he leads me from the bathroom to the cozy little bedroom. In the span of time it took me to stop crying, clean myself up, and come back out he’s cleaned up the mess I left behind and changed the sheets. Fresh tears pool in the corners of my eyes. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“Katniss.” His voice is firm, but kind, so kind. “No more apologies. You have nothing to apologize for.” He pulls back the blankets, silently encouraging me to climb back into bed. Misinterpreting my shivering for being cold. As I prop myself up against the headboard and pull the quilt over my legs he continues. “We’re a team now, okay? Allies. We’ll get you through this together. No more apologies.”

“Okay,” I nod, my voice shaky.

He holds my gaze, a little worry line between eyes that glow in the lamplight. “I know you don’t have much reason to trust me, but I swear to you I won’t let you down.” And I nod again. Because even though I barely know him, I can see that’s the truth. “I, um. I had an idea, if you’re comfortable with it. One of my customers at the bakery, Old Sae, she was a midwife. I could ask her to come? We can trust her.”

It’s the word we that makes me gasp. But he must think I’m upset, because he rushes to reassure me. “I won’t call her if you don’t want me to. I just, well. I don’t know what else to do. I’ve uh. Never…” he gestures helplessly at me. And I smirk.

“Me neither. But yes, if you trust her, then…” I trail off, shrugging.

He nods. “Good.”

Peeta’s pyjamas are sleep-wrinkled and his hair is standing up everywhere. It makes him look so young, like a little boy. But when he reaches up to run a hand through his already rumpled mess of blond curls, the slice of skin bared by his shirt shifting reminds me that he’s no child. “I’ll phone Sae,” he says. “See what she suggests we do next.”

It’s dark outside, there’s no clock in here and Peeta isn’t wearing a watch. But it certainly feels like the middle of the night. “She’ll be asleep, I imagine. Maybe we should wait until morning?”

“But the baby?”

“It’s true I’ve never done this before,” I say, and my lips quirk up a bit. “But I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen right this minute.” The books said I'd have contractions, pains in my stomach, when labour started. That hasn't happened yet.

For a moment he only stares at me. Then his shoulders drop, and he chuckles. I start to relax a little too.

“I’m sorry I woke you again,” I say after a while.

He smiles. “I'm not. But I guess I should let you sleep?” I know we should both try to sleep. But he seems reluctant to leave me. And I don't want to be alone.

“I'm not really very sleepy,” I admit. I think he hears my silent wish.

“Well then, how about some tea?” When I nod he tells me to wait, and pads out of the room and down the stairs.

He's not gone long, returning with two cups. Mine is just the way I like it, with a splash of milk. He must have been paying attention yesterday morning. “It's just after three,” he answers my unasked question. “I'll call Sae at six, if nothing changes before then.” He raises a questioning eyebrow at me, and I nod. “Okay, good. Do you want to talk?”

I know I owe him more than just my gratitude. I owe him an explanation. When I pat the mattress beside me, the same way I did yesterday, he perches on the edge of the bed. And he listens intently as I haltingly tell him how I came to be in this ridiculous, wretched situation.

“My parents came from very different backgrounds,” I start. “My mother was a society girl, from the Capitol. My father a coal miner from the Seam. They never should have even met.”

“But they did,” he prompts when I’ve been silent too long, lost in my memories.

“They did. And they fell in love.” Despite the hardship and poverty I grew up in, my parents remained completely devoted to each other. Our tiny apartment in the Seam was filled with laughter and music, and so much love. We didn’t have much, but I never really felt poor until they were gone. “My mother’s family didn't approve. They disowned her. I've never met any of them.”

“Your uncle in the Capitol-”

“Is her brother. She, well. She used to say he was the only reasonable one.” Sitting here in the thin lamplight, my plan to find a complete stranger who I'm not even certain knows I exist seems awfully stupid. But after I lost my job, I ran out of other options. My former boss isn't the only person in the Seam who was disgusted by my situation. Once I started really showing, I couldn't find anyone willing to hire me. And then my landlady started to snipe about not wanting a baby disturbing the other tenants.

I really don't have any friends, other than Gale. And he's gone. There’s welfare, but I wouldn't apply. No matter how bad things are, I couldn't go crawling for charity. Especially charity that would come with strings. Charity that could take away my baby. My only family.

Yet here I am, accepting charity from a complete stranger. I shake my head sadly. What a mess.

“Have you spoken to him?” he asks.

“No. I found his name and address in my mother’s things. But I didn’t have a telephone in the Seam.”

“You wrote to him then?”

“No.” I squirm, partly to alleviate some of the ache in my back, and partly from embarrassment. I had wanted to write to my uncle. But each time I sat with a blank paper before me I’d drawn a blank. Things had seemed clear in my head, but the words never came out of the pen right. “Besides,” I say, as if Peeta had been privy to my thoughts. “What if I’d written and he’d said no? I thought, I don’t know. Maybe if I showed up it would be harder to deny me?”

Peeta nods, and he won’t quite meet my eyes when he says, “I can help you find him, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” I admit, and there’s a note of tears in my voice. “They… they abandoned my mother, because she fell in love with a poor, olive-skinned man. They never even gave my father a chance. And I look just like him! What if my uncle hates me too?”

Peeta, to his credit, doesn't offer any false platitudes. “He'd be a fool if he couldn't see what a remarkable woman you are,” he says softly. He takes a deep breath, as if he wants to say more, but then simply releases it.

We sit in silence for awhile. Finally he sighs. “Do you think you can sleep now?” I don't, but I nod. He takes my now cold tea, and squeezes my hand.

I do sleep though. The sun is up when Peeta gently shakes me awake. He's dressed, and wearing a coat. A flare of terror lights in my gut, but he merely smiles. “I'm going to drive over and pick up Sae. Will you be okay for awhile?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” He pushes a stray lock of my hair off my face and looks at me with such tenderness. Then he slips away.

I climb out of bed and pull on my clothing. Downstairs, I find a foil-wrapped plate waiting for me. Cold ham and still-warm buns stuffed with cheese. This man’s kindness is boundless. Humbling.

I'm glad he can't see me sniffling over a plate of food. I've cried far too much since I got here. I don't want him to think I'm not capable of taking care of myself and my baby.

He's still not back when I finish eating. I wash up my dishes, pausing when my back spasms again. Every little movement seems to set it off, and it's getting worse. The pain wraps around me, sets my hips on fire, makes all of my abdominal muscles tense.

Then I turn on the Christmas tree lights. I hope Peeta doesn't mind. It's just so beautiful; I'm drawn to it, a moth to a flame.

I'm still standing there, transfixed by the lights, when he returns with an older woman. Though he's in conversation when he walks through the door, he stops talking when he sees me and simply stares. My first instinct is to get defensive, but the urge to snap at him fades when I see the soft smile playing on his lips. And I find myself smiling in return.

The sound of a throat clearing snaps us both from staring. Peeta’s ears are tinged with red as he turns to the woman beside him. “Ms. Sae,” he says, “May I present Katniss Everdeen.” He turns back to me, and smiles again. “Katniss, this is Sae Peters. She’s going to help us.” His voice is so soft, almost reverent.

I reach out to shake Sae’s hand, but instead she grabs both of my arms, looking me up and down appraisingly. I stiffen, but her eyes are grey, so much like my father’s, and it immediately calms me. Grey eyes aren't very common, so it feels like a sign to see them gazing back at me. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she smiles.

Sae sends Peeta off to the kitchen with a list of instructions and hefts a large bag over her shoulder. I offer to help, but she scoffs. She leads me upstairs, straight to the room where I’ve been staying, and without any fanfare orders me to strip. I balk, but she pulls from her bag a soft-looking cotton gown. While I change she covers the top of the dresser with stacks of towels, blankets and bowls.

She examines me, and it’s weird and uncomfortable and awkward. “How close are the contractions coming?” she asks, pulling the cotton gown back over my knees.

“I’m not having any contractions yet,” I tell her, and she frowns at me.

“You had one while I was examining you,” she says. I shake my head; I haven’t had any contractions, nothing like what the library books described. Her expression softens. “Did you feel your stomach tightening?”

“When my back spasms, everything tightens,” I tell her, and she nods.

“Those are contractions, dear. Sounds like you’re having back labour.”

“I… really?” She nods. “So the baby?”

“Is coming,” she finishes. “Today, I think. You’re already about 5 centimeters dilated.” That’s about halfway, I think, if the books are to be believed. For the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe.

Peeta takes Sae back home. “You’ve got hours to go, dear,” she assures me. “I’ll come back this afternoon. In the meantime, try to get some rest.” That’s not going to happen.

The morning passes quietly. I exchange Sae’s soft gown for my own scratchy clothes, I feel more in control wearing them. Then I sit with Peeta in the living room, watching the Christmas tree lights and playing cards. Now that I know the back spasms are contractions, I notice the pattern of them. Peeta clearly does too, after awhile I realize that he’s recording them in the margin of the notebook where he’s keeping score of our card game. “Oh,” he stutters when I mention it. “Sae said to call her when they’re five minutes apart.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, and I think he knows I mean for more than keeping track.

By lunchtime, I really know these are contractions. They come every 6 or 7 minutes, and are strong enough that I can’t talk through them. But I can’t sit still either, pacing Peeta’s house like a caged tiger. He too, is bristling with energy, and we pace together. In between contractions, he makes jokes, tells stories, keeps my mind off what’s happening. I start to truly believe that I can do this.

The feeling doesn’t last.

It’s mid-afternoon when he calls Sae. Thankfully, she tells him to stay with me, that she’ll have her nephew drive her over. I don’t know if I could let go of him long enough for him to pick her up. We’re still pacing, but now I’m leaning heavily on him, each contraction turning my legs to jello. I’m not sure how much more I have in me. “Talk to me,” he says softly in my ear. I think he knows I need to be distracted from the pain. “Tell me about your dreams.”

“I don’t really have any,” I admit.

“Come on,” he cajoles. “Humour me.”

I sigh. “I just want to be happy. Like I was before my parents…” I have to stop as pain jolts through my back, wrapping around and ripping through my stomach too. I concentrate on simply breathing.

“You will be,” he whispers. “I know it. Everything is going to work out.” We pace some more, he doesn’t push me to talk. But I find I want to. I want to tell him everything.

“I hadn’t quite turned nineteen when they died.”

“Oh, Katniss,” he murmurs sadly. I shrug.

“I was working at the diner part time while I took classes at the community college. When they died, I had to drop out of school to work full time. Even still, I couldn't keep our apartment. But I found a room at a boarding house near my job. And I got by, mostly.” Another contraction hits, and this time I cry out, clutching Peeta who holds me firmly. When I can talk again, I continue. “That's where I met Gale. He lived in the room right above me.”

“He was your boyfriend?” I scowl.

“He was never my boyfriend. He was a friend. He helped me.” Peeta is silent as I struggle to explain. “He was good to me, at the beginning. Helped me sell what I could of my family’s possessions. There’s wasn’t much, but every dollar helped. We pooled our resources. He… he helped me keep myself together when the grief was overwhelming.” I don’t even realize that I’m crying again until Peeta pulls me into his arms, and I tuck my face into the hollow of his shoulder. “The rest just sort of… happened. He wanted more. And I didn’t want to lose him.”

“And when you told him about the baby?” Peeta whispers. There’s no judgement in his tone.

“He wasn’t ready. He, uh. He told me I should get rid of it.” Peeta sucks in a sharp little breath, but quickly he schools his features back into a calm mask.

The sound of shuffling in the front hall catches our attention. Sae. When she sees us, Peeta practically holding me upright while I tremble and shake, she grins. “Ah,” she says, shrugging out of her coat. “Things are progressing now. Good, good.”

Peeta helps me climb the stairs, and at Sae’s insistence I’m back in the nightgown. When she examines me again she seems pleased. “Coming along,” she says, nodding. “Keep walking, it’ll make things move faster.”

So I do. Up and down the narrow hallway, from Peeta’s bedroom door to the top of the staircase, back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes Sae holds my hands. Mostly it’s Peeta. Back and forth. Back and forth. I sip a little tea. Peeta sings Christmas carols so off-tune that I can’t help but laugh.

The contractions feel like they’re one on top of the other now. As soon as one ends another begins, and they hurt. They hurt so much more than I’d ever imagined possible. Sae promises me that everything is happening exactly as it should, but I feel like I’ve been walking for days, and am no closer to my destination. When I simply can’t walk anymore, they coax me back into bed.

I try leaning against the headboard but I can't find a comfortable position, I'm restless and exhausted and so very frightened. “Peeta,” Sae says authoritatively, “sit behind Katniss. Let her recline against you.” His eyes widen, but far from looking horrified, he looks almost eager.

But he faces me, blue eyes serious and searching. “Is that okay with you?” He's so considerate, so careful with me. Letting me make every decision. I simply nod.

It takes some manoeuvring, and we have to pause when a particularly hard contraction hits. But then he's sitting behind me, strong thighs bracing my own, the solid wall of his chest supporting me, surrounding me with warmth. And it feels so good, not just the change of position, but the sensation of being held. Of having someone to lean on, literally and figuratively. His arm wraps around my collarbone, a hug, and I curl my fingers around his forearm, holding him to me. “Still okay?” he whispers, the words caressing the shell of my ear.

“Y-yes,” is all I can manage. A tiny part of me wonders what it would be like to be held this way, by this sweet, gentle, handsome man, if I wasn’t sweating and shaking in agony. If we were two people in love, instead of two people thrown together by circumstances beyond our control.

It’s not the time for wondering. Not when every contraction builds on the last. Not when the baby is coming. But my traitorous mind keeps wandering. Wishing.

Peeta hums in my ear, snippets of songs, gentle encouragements. I curl against him, and in between contractions he presses his fingers firmly into the muscles of my back, where Sae shows him to. And it helps, not just the hand on my back, but the one cradling me so gently against his chest.

“I wish we’d met differently,” I slur, pain and exhaustion making my words sloppy and unfiltered. “I wish I’d come into your bakery and ordered a cake.”

He laughs, a soft puff of air against my ear. “I’d have asked you to sit with me, to have a cup of tea. So we could discuss your cake, of course.”

“Of course.” I smile. “I’d have stayed. And then I’d have come up with any excuse to come back and see you again.” I close my eyes, imagining.

“I would have set aside a cheese bun every day, hoping you’d come in.” He lays his cheek against my hair. “It might have taken me awhile to screw up the courage to ask you out.”

“I’d have said yes,” I tell him without hesitation. I turn my head further into him, so that he can’t see my tears. Maybe I do have dreams after all. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not at his bakery, buying frivolous pastries just to see him. “I wish that was real,” I whimper, too quietly for him to hear. But he does anyway. His huge hand cups my cheek, tips my tear-streaked face up.

“I’d like it to be real, Katniss. When you’re ready, when you’re not exhausted and overwhelmed. But I’ll wait, as long as you need me to. I promise.” He’s completely serious.

“Thank you,” I whimper, and he brushes my tears away. “I’m so grateful that you’re here with me.” He meets my eyes, his are serious, shining with something I can’t name. In another world, in another time, I might almost call it love. I close my eyes, and let myself snuggle into his chest, let myself cling to him, to the comfort and care he’s offering.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” he says softly.

Minutes, hours, days pass. I have no sense of time or space. The pain is a near constant thing, but somehow my mind feels almost detached from it. I’m here, but I’m not. Sae asks me questions, and I grit out answers, but I hardly know what I’m saying. Only Peeta’s voice in my ear, steady and soothing, keeps me going.

---

The change is sudden and startling. I feel too hot and too cold. My skin is too tight, my heart too big for my chest. “What's happening?” I ask Sae, terror flowing through my veins.

“You're in transition,” she says calmly. Too calmly. “Won't be much longer now.” She pats my thigh and I shudder. I’m on fire.

Nothing could have prepared me for this. My whole body shakes, I'm going to die. “Am I dying?” I groan.

“You're not dying,” Sae says, but I don't feel reassured. I'm going to die. My baby is going to be an orphan.

Panic rises hot and fast. “Peeta,” I whimper. His arms tighten around me, holding me snugly against his chest. “Promise me,” I wail, teeth chattering so hard I can barely understand myself. “Promise you'll take care of the baby if I die.”

“You're not going to die,” he murmurs in my ear. “You're doing so well, Sweetheart. You're amazing.”

“Promise me,” I repeat. “Please, Peeta.”

“I'm going to take care of both of you,” he says firmly. “For as long as you'll allow.”

My tears overflow, but not because of the pain. Because of the relief. His lips brush against my temple. “You're not alone, Katniss,” he whispers. “I'm here. I'll be here for as long as you want me.”

---

Our little cocoon is bathed in orange light when with one last, soul-splitting push my baby is born. Tiny, mewling cries fill the room as my baby’s little lungs fill with air for the first time. “You've got a beautiful baby girl,” Sae says, setting the squirming, squawking bundle on my chest as she ties off the cord.

A large hand reaches from behind me to steady her. “You did it,” Peeta murmurs in my ear as he strokes her back, his voice choked. “You did it, Katniss.” Tears stream down my face as I look at my baby - my daughter . She’s here, and she’s perfect.

Sae carefully lifts my little girl, now freed from her cord, and I squawk. “Shh,” she says with a crooked smile. “I’m not taking her far. Just gonna clean her up.” She carries the baby across the room, to where she’s set a pan of water and piles of blankets.

Peeta is still sitting behind me, cradling me, supporting me, even after all of these hours. He runs his hands up and down my arms, calming and soothing me. I catch his left hand in my right, pulling it across my body. He understands, wrapping me in a tight hug. “Thank you,” I whisper, just for him. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Yes you could have,” he says, pressing the words into my temple in such an intimate way that tears spill over. “You are the strongest person I’ve even known, Katniss.” He shifts me in his arms, so that he can see my face, uses a thumb to brush away my tears. “But if you’ll have me, I’d like to help you from now on. No strings,” he emphasizes. “I care about you, Katniss, so much. I like you. And this big old house is so empty.” He kisses my cheek as fresh tears overrun. “I want you to stay. Don’t answer now. Just think about it. Okay?” I nod and he kisses my cheek again.

“All right,” Sae says, looking at Peeta and me fondly. “Away you go, Peeta. I need to take care of the lovely miss now.” Peeta carefully climbs off the bed, piling pillows behind me to help keep me partly upright.

But I catch his hand before he can leave. “Stay?” He nods.

“Always.”

Sae hands me the baby, now wrapped in a striped blanket and wearing a tiny yellow hat. Peeta sits beside me, and we take turns counting each of her tiny fingers and toes, kissing her downy eyebrows, laughing when she yawns. I hardly notice Sae delivering the afterbirth or cleaning me up, so enthralled am I by the little person in my arms. “What will you name her?” Peeta asks.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” I admit. “Do you have any ideas?” He looks awestruck by my question. He strokes her cheek with a single large finger, considering.

“How about Hope?”

Hope . I glance up at Peeta. His blue eyes are shining at me. He’s given me so much in the two days I’ve been here, but I realize that the most important of the things he’s given me is hope. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. I’m not alone anymore. I have her, and I have him. Things are going to be okay.

“Hope,” I whisper, dropping my gaze to her tiny face. “That’s perfect.” I turn back to Peeta. “Would you like to hold her?”

“Yes,” he says before I’ve even finished asking, and I smirk. He cradles her so gently, one big hand cupping her tiny head. “Hello, Hope,” he whispers. “I’m so happy to meet you.”

Sae comes back to talk to me, to give me some instructions, tell me how much pain to expect. What to do for the small tear and swelling. And I try to listen. But my eyes keep sliding back to Peeta, now standing by the window, cradling Hope in his arms so tenderly. Talking to her in low, soothing tones. “He’s a good man,” Sae says softly, grabbing my attention. “He’ll treat you right, if you let him.”

“Thank you, for everything,” I tell her, and she pats my face with a leathery hand.

“You’re gonna be okay here, all of you.” She smiles kindly. “I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you, and bring you some things for the baby. But I’m going to head home now. It’s Christmas morning.”

“It is?” I’ve completely lost track of time and space, my entire world narrowed to just this room and the people within these four walls. A mention of the date is the first little whisper of reality threatening to intrude. Sae holds up her arm, so that I can read her wristwatch. A quarter to three in the morning. “Hey Peeta,” I call, and he drags his eyes away from my sleeping daughter. “Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, and walks over. Sae wraps an arm around him, kissing his cheek and murmuring in his ear before she leaves the room. Leaves the three of us all alone.

Every muscle in my body aches, and I’m a complete mess, but absolutely elated. Peeta sets Hope on the bed, then stands, uncertainty painting his features. But when I pull back the edge of the quilt, Peeta doesn’t hesitate. He lies down facing me, Hope’s tiny swaddled body between us. I reach for his hand and he twines our fingers together. “I can’t believe she’s finally here,” I sigh. “She’s beautiful.”

“She looks just like you,” Peeta says, stroking her tufts of dark hair with his free hand.

I gaze at the tiny, perfect being sleeping beside me. “I never knew it was possible to fall in love so fast,” I tell Peeta with a little laugh.

“Neither did I.” He smiles at me, and I know. We’re going to be okay. All three of us.

Chapter Text

Epilogue - 1 year later.

“No, it’s okay Rye,” I sigh into the phone, shaking my head in exasperation, but he doesn’t see it. “I keep telling you, everything is under control. You don’t need to bring anything but yourself and your family.” I can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll see you this afternoon,” I tell my brother before we disconnect the call.

I make my way over to the tree in the corner of the room, surrounded by gaily-wrapped packages. With a grin, I snap the lights on. Shiny tinsel garlands reflect the multicoloured beams, like a thousand tiny disco balls, scattering light over the boughs of greenery and stockings that adorn the mantel.

The tree is small, modest, and there are no antique blown glass balls decorating it this year. The reason for that enters the room, held aloft in her mother’s arms. “Dada!” Hope calls as she sees me, arms windmilling excitedly. Katniss laughs and sets her gently down on tiny feet. Hope wobbles just a few moments before falling onto her bottom with a soft thud, then crawling rapid-fire to me, babbling the whole way.

She squeals when I pick her up, laughing gutturally as I blow raspberries on her flushed cheeks before cradling her against my chest. She snuggles into me, her soft black hair tickling my chin, and we both sigh contentedly.

Hope is definitely a Daddy’s girl.

And I am her daddy, in every way that matters.

After her birth, almost a year ago, I convinced Katniss to stay with me at least until she healed from the birth. Old Sae insisted that would take a minimum of six weeks, and she told Katniss that she really needed to stay in Victor's Village so that Sae could provide aftercare to both her and the baby for awhile.

Those first few weeks were a time of discovery. Sae came by frequently, teaching us what we needed to know, helping me gather all of the things a baby needs (and babies need a lot of tiny things, it’s surprising). I worked at the bakery only in the predawn hours, rushing home as soon as I could to help Katniss, and to be with them both. It was exhausting. It was thrilling. It was heaven.

I fell completely, irrevocably head-over-heels in love with both of them.

I bought Hope a crib, but for so many of those early nights she instead slept between me and Katniss, just like her very first night. It was a cozy little nest of adoration. And both Katniss and I slept better that way too, both able to succumb to the relentless pull of sleep knowing there were two of us, working together to take care of our precious baby.

And in those long nights of shared responsibility, of comfort and support, we grew together. Katniss opened up to me, about her past, her dreams. And I poured my heart out for her.

The first intrusion of reality into our perfect bubble came in early February. Sae returned to give Katniss and Hope a clean bill of health, and to bring the form that Katniss would have to submit to register Hope’s birth.

She carefully pointed out to Katniss all of the information she would need to fill in. And when she got to the father section, she calmly told Katniss that was where I would need to sign.

Sae knows Hope isn't mine, biologically. She knew right from the beginning that I’d only met Katniss two days before Hope’s birth. But she figured that I was going to assume paternity, to be responsible for Hope. That we were going to be a family.

I guess I'd been assuming that too.

Katniss balked. Hard. She kept her cool until Sae was gone. Then she turned on me.

We fought all evening. Though Katniss must have known that I had nothing to do with Sae’s suggestion, she accused me of backing her into a corner, of forcing her into a situation she didn't want. Even as my heart shattered, I tried to convince her of the rationality of it. That I could support Hope, financially and emotionally, and be responsible for her if anything ever happened to Katniss. I promised that I would never try to take Hope away from her, and that I would stand back when she found someone to love, someone she wanted to marry and make a life with.

And then I confessed that I loved her, that I loved Hope, that I wanted so much for us to be a family someday. I knew it was too soon to lay all of that at her feet. But I was desperate.

I begged her to stay. She insisted she was leaving.

She stormed off then, shutting herself and Hope in their room.

I slept in my own bed that night, for the first time in weeks. But of course I didn't sleep. I paced. I silently raged. I mourned. I'd had in my hands, so very briefly, everything I had ever wanted. But it wasn't really mine. It wasn't really real.

I cried that night, the only time in my adult life that I've ever cried. Face pressed against the cold window, looking out at the moonlit winter-barren landscape, I was heartsick. Broken. Utterly alone.

When I slunk downstairs in the early morning, exhausted and dispirited, I found the forms on the kitchen table, along with a pen. Katniss had filled them out, and under the section marked ‘father’ she'd carefully printed Peeta J. Mellark.

I signed.

I stayed later than usual at the bakery that day, afraid of what I'd be coming home to. An empty house, in all likelihood.

But Katniss’s battered orange car was still in the driveway when I arrived. The smell of cooking permeated the house. Hope was napping in her playpen in the living room.

And as I stood just inside the door, staring, confused, Katniss emerged from the kitchen. Then she ran.

She ran to me.

A half dozen silent steps and she was in my arms, clinging. She didn't say a word and neither did I. We simply held each other, rocking and breathing together, until Hope woke up.

That night, Katniss put Hope in her crib and pulled me into bed. She kissed me for the first time, chaste and tentative, but a covenant.

Katniss insisted on contributing if she was going to continue living with me, despite my protests. We set Hope’s playpen up in the bakery office and Katniss worked with me.

She's a terrible baker. But she's a fantastic bookkeeper. She has a keen mind for math and a love of ledgers. Within a couple of months she'd revolutionized my stock and ordering system.

She really is incredible.

We've had our ups and downs since. Our moments of joy. Our moments of friction, of doubt. Learning to co-parent at the same time as we learned to be a couple was so difficult. Katniss had to learn to trust, something that didn’t come easily to her. I struggled to make decisions for us and for the baby, to assert myself, because I constantly worried that I didn’t truly have a claim to Hope.

But Hope claimed me, over and over again.

And though it was hard, I wouldn't change a thing.

I asked Katniss to marry me on a gorgeous fall day, as we picnicked in the meadow near our home.

Today is our wedding day. December twenty-second, exactly a year after we first met.

My eldest brother, Brann, flew in last night. He's snoring in our guest room, still on west coast time. My middle brother, Rye, and his family will be here in a few hours.

It will be an intimate ceremony, just family and close friends, here in our home. And my brothers will stay after, to celebrate Christmas and Hope’s first birthday with us.

My entire family, together for the holidays.

Katniss crosses the room, her silver eyes shining with love and affection. She strokes Hope’s tiny pigtails, then leans up to kiss me.

A year ago, I could never have imagined that this would be my life. When I was alone and lonely, I made a desperate wish. And somehow, it came true. I am surrounded by family. The woman I love with every fibre of my being is going to be my wife. And I have Hope. My life and my heart are full.

Chapter Text

He was always there, in the back of my mind.

Even as Katniss and I fell more and more in love, even as we built our life together, raised our precious Hope together, he was a shadow, a niggling bit of worry down deep.

I never told Katniss that of course, I never could. He was the one thing I kept one hundred percent to myself.

She never, ever gave me any reason to believe that she even thought about him anymore. Him, the first man she gave her heart to, the one who planted his seed in her soul, then left her alone and adrift.

I hated him, with a white-hot burning passion. And I was also afraid of him. Afraid he'd waltz back into Katniss’s life, lay claim to my wife and daughter, take from me the life I love so dearly.

But as the years passed, as our lives and hearts intertwined, as we built a home and a family together, he grew dimmer. The fear faded to just an occasional unease. And eventually, I stopped thinking about him at all.

-----

Katniss gathers the remnants of our picnic lunch, tucking the dishes back into the hamper and crumpling the bakery paper into balls. I should be helping her, but instead I'm transfixed by the way the late summer sun plays in her ebony hair, crowning her in fire. She catches me staring and grins, that soft smile she saves only for me.

Over her shoulder, I can see Hope dancing in the grass, her long, dark braids festooned with dandelions. She's a gazelle; leaping with a grace inherited from her mother, lithe and elegant. Her little brother struggles to keep up on his chubby toddler legs. My children. Our children.

Katniss sees me watching them, and her smile widens. She's stunning, and she doesn't even know. I catch her wrist and pull her to me, kissing her softly but with a promise of more. She flushes a little, glancing around furtively to see if anyone’s noticed. I know she's thinking of all of the times we've made love on this picnic blanket, in our meadow.

But we’re not in our meadow today. We’re in a huge urban park in the centre of the Capitol, surrounded not by long grasses and songbirds, but by dog walkers and other families.

We’ve been visiting the Capitol a couple of times a year since before Ben was born. Katniss has been getting to know some of her late mother’s family, slowly and tentatively. It's been good for her, I think. Learning more about where she came from. Bravely working to heal some very old wounds.

I'm so proud of her.

“Mama,” a tiny blond-mopped whirlwind lands on the blanket between us, sun-flushed and grinning. “Yook!” he says. I snicker as he grabs Katniss’s face in his slobbery hands, turning her head towards an ice cream vendor who has set up his cart along the footpath.

“What's that, Benji?” Katniss laughs, and strokes his downy curls. As much as Hope is daddy’s little girl, Ben is his mother's sidekick.

“Ice keem! Pwease mama, I have some?”

“Sure buddy,” I tell him. Katniss scrunches her nose at me; she thinks I spoil the children, but I can't resist. I waited so long for them.

“All right,” she sighs, but her eyes sparkle. “Go see what they've got.” Ben clambers over to me eagerly, and I hoist him up onto my shoulders. “I'll grab the blanket,” Katniss laughs.

Ben keeps up a running commentary as we walk to the cart, pointing out every dog and duck and ball along the way, and I love it. It's incredible, watching my children grow and develop their own unique personalities. Even if it makes me a little melancholy for their baby days. Katniss and I have been talking about maybe having one more. It might be time to start trying. With that thought, I turn to smile at her.

But she's not there.

She's standing down the walkway, talking with a tall, dark-haired man. He's smiling, beaming really, and gesturing animatedly. I can't see Katniss’s face, but her body language screams discomfort, her back stiff, her arms crossed. I have to resist the urge to run to her, instead sliding Ben off my shoulder and into my arms, covering the few yards between us and my wife in long, deliberate strides.

Conversation stops abruptly as I lay my hand gently on Katniss’s shoulder, not possessively, just to let her know that I'm here for her. She looks up at me, her expression defiant but also tinged with fear, and I swallow hard.

The stranger is looking at me and at Ben with narrowed eyes. As much as Ben is practically my clone with his blond hair and stocky build, he regards the new man warily through his mother's solemn silver eyes.

“Mama,” Ben chirps, reaching for her. He's still little enough to be shy around unfamiliar people. Katniss takes him from me and settles him on her hip, holding him almost protectively. I can feel her trembling.

Before I can ask Katniss what's wrong, she turns back to the stranger. “I'd like you to meet my husband,” she tells him, before turning back to me. “Peeta, this is Gale Hawthorne.”

It's like a fist to the gut. The man before us is the man who abandoned my pregnant wife more than seven years ago. He glances back and forth between Katniss and me. I'm torn between wanting to punch him in the face, and wanting to grab my family and put them somewhere safe, where he can't hurt them.

Or steal them.

Instead, I bite back the terror, and nod at him.

But he's looking at Katniss again. Watching her stroke Ben’s hair, fixated maybe on the pair of rings that encircle the fourth finger of her left hand. He almost looks disbelieving. And anger builds again in my chest. Did this selfish idiot think that Katniss - beautiful, bright, kind Katniss - would wait for him forever?

I want to tell him to go away, to never speak to Katniss again. But I can see a kind of silent conversation happening between them, one I'm not privy to. It's obvious their connection goes deep.

My heart clenches. Of course their connection is deep. They share a child.

As if summoned, an all-too-familiar voice yells “Daddy!” behind us.

Hope, my beautiful girl, is running this way.

For one brief, sickening moment I think she's running towards Gale Hawthorne, that somehow she's recognized this man who shares her DNA. And I think he does too, because his eyes widen.

But Hope runs to me, jumping into my arms in her fearless way, trusting I'll catch her. And I do. I will always catch her, always be here for her. She grins, new chipmunk teeth glowing. “Look what I found, Daddy,” she says, completely oblivious to the stranger in our midst and to the tension that surrounds us like fog.

“What is it, Sweetheart?” I'm reluctant to even say her name in front of Gale Hawthorne. She opens her palm, a snail shell rests inside. “A shell?” I chuckle.

“Look, he’s still inside his home,” she says, twisting the shell to show me it is indeed full. “We can draw him in our book, right Daddy?” Hope and I have been working together, carefully cataloging the flora and fauna around our home. We take turns drawing the plants and animals, then she writes everything she knows about them in her most careful handwriting. The hours we spend together, exploring and drawing and talking, are among my happiest.

“Absolutely,” I tell her. “He’s going to be a great addition.”

“Princess,” Katniss says, and I stiffen. She's going to introduce our daughter to her biological father. The idea of my Hope calling another man ‘daddy’ makes me physically sick. “Can you take your brother to the ice cream cart and choose which flavour you want? Daddy and I will be right there.”

Both kids start squirming immediately to be let down, Ben chanting ‘ice keem’ like a mantra. But Hope, perhaps sensing my mood, kisses my cheek as I set her gently on the ground. “Love you, Hopey,” I whisper, my voice gruff with emotion.

“Love you too, Daddy,” Hope says, her musical voice bright and clear above the cacophony of the park. She grabs her little brother’s hand, and the two of them run up the footpath together. I watch them, like I always do. I only turn back when Katniss’s small hand slips into my own.

She looks up at me, love shining in her eyes, and I smile in spite of myself. She's always had that effect on me.

Hawthorne is watching us with an expression that can only be called longing. “You, ah. You have a beautiful family,” he says, not to Katniss, but to me. And though I don't know this man at all, I can hear the underlying meaning in his words. Hope is my family, not his.

“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely.

He says a few more words to Katniss before excusing himself. We both watch him walk away. Then she wraps her arms around me, and I hold her, rocking and breathing together in the summer sun until the kids come running back to report on all of the ice cream flavours.

My family. We are all together, where we are meant to be. No matter what, this was going to happen anyway.