A/N: I haven't seen many fics about Mr. Mellark and Mrs. Everdeen, so I thought I'd give it a shot. I'm starting from their childhood on, so Mrs. Everdeen's name is Aster Guerison, and Mr. Mellark's is Oliver Mellark. ALSO, I'm trying to be as canon etc as possible, so if you see something that doesn't seem right, please let me know and I'll work to fix it! Also, I really like constructive criticism. Get at me.
The bakery was closed that day.
A trembling five-year-old Oliver Mellark sat outside the closed door as horrible cries of excruciating pain filled the house.
"Ollie! Get away from there," nine-year-old Holly Mellark snapped, but taking her younger brother's hand gently. "I told you to go to the sitting room. " Oliver reluctantly stood up under the coaxing of his sister and the two made their way (very slowly, thanks to Oliver) hand-in-hand to the sitting room.
"Holly," the little boy sniffled, "is Mama going to die?" Holly blanched.
"No, of course not," she said stiffly, then tried for a more convincing, soothing approach: "Look, Ollie, Mother's going to be fine—" But whatever Holly was going to say next was cut off by a terrible shriek of pain. Holly became even paler; Oliver buried his head into his sister's skirt, his small body convulsing with soundless sobs.
"Let's go downstairs, Oliver," she said, gently disengaging her brother from her now-damp skirt, "The apothecary will be here any minute, and there's no one to let him in." But Oliver didn't move. Holly picked him up with a groan and clomped down to the first floor that was the bakery and set him down.
It was strange being in the bakery with all light extinguished, except for the bright late August sunset streaking through the windows. The ovens usually made the first floor absolutely sweltering all year round and the wood flooring on the second story deliciously warm in the winter. But the ovens hadn't been on since yesterday, since the baby had decided to come.
Another shriek split the air, muffled by the floorboards that separated the first and second floors of the house.
"Onto the stoop," Holly commanded, prodding her brother in the back with her fingertips. Oliver stumbled out of the door and in front of the bakery, his sister following him. He stood on his tiptoes, searching desperately for the salvation for his mother on the bustling Merchant street. He didn't quite know what the apothecary looked like, only that he would be able to stop Mrs. Mellark from her hellish screams of pain.
"Is that him, Holly?" Oliver had spotted a man striding down the road, and was so excited to get a better look at him that he nearly fell over from trying to stand higher on the tips of his toes.
"No, that's Mr. Goldstone," said Holly, reaching out a hand to help Oliver regain balance.
"But… when will the apocathary get here?" He turned around and looked at his sister with trusting, desperate blue eyes. In any less somber situation Holly would have laughed and corrected the little boy's mispronunciation of "apothecary", but instead she pushed his hair out of his face and said, "I don't know, Ollie. The Guerisons don't live in the center of town like we do." Uncomforted, Oliver turned around and recommenced his search for the apothecary.
"I see Maysilee," he announced all of a sudden, pointing towards the road, "but where's Rosalind?"
"What?" said Holly, suddenly confused, then looked to where he was pointing. "Oh no, Ollie, that's who we're looking for!" Oliver tried to follow as she rushed off of the steps into the street, but fell quickly behind.
"Thank you for coming," Holly was saying as she and the Guerisons drew closer to the lagging Oliver. Mr. Guerison, a tall, lean man, was laden with a bag that was undoubtedly filled with medical supplies. His wife, a shorter woman with a belly like Oliver's mother, carried a pouch in one hand and held the hand of a little blonde girl in the other.
"Of course," said Mr. Guerison courteously. He looked up at the house. "I assume she's upstairs?"
"Yes, sir," replied Holly politely, like her mother had taught her. "I'll take you to her."
"Aster," Mrs. Guerison addressed her daughter, bending over as far as her stomach allowed to get closer to the little girl's ear, "I want you to play with the Mellark's son while we work. Can you do that?" Only after Aster had eyed Oliver, who had only just arrived on the stoop, with a wary glance did she reply, "Yes, Mama."
"Oliver," Holly had suddenly gripped his wrist tightly and was hissing in his ear as she dragged him toward the door, "You will stay downstairs, by the counter, and away from the ovens. And you will NOT break anything."
"I know, Holly!" He protested, trying to wrench his arm from his sister's grasp. She sighed and let him go at the threshold of the door.
"Look, Oliver, I'll be with you as soon as I can. Just…be good." She chucked him under the chin before leading him through the door and rejoining the Guerisons, who were waiting in the bakery's entryway.
"Follow me, please," Holly said, reassuming the elegant air that she had been using five minutes prior and beckoning Mr. and Mrs. Guerison with her hand towards the stairs. Mrs. Guerison gave her daughter one kiss on the head and made her way up the stairs with her husband and Holly, who was leading the way.
Oliver found himself stunned by the new-found silence and found himself at a loss for words.
"Well, hello then," said the girl, giving him the same suspicious look that she had given him outside. "What's your name?"
"Oliver," he said, losing some of his initial shyness, "What's yours?"
"Aster Guerison," she chirped happily, looking around. "What do you do here, anyways?"
"This is our bakery," Oliver explained proudly, "We make a lot of bread and biscuits. And cakes." He added as a wistful afterthought.
"We don't get our bread here," Aster informed him matter-of-factly. "There's another bakery closer to our house."
"Well, you should come here instead," Oliver said. "We make the best bread in the whole district." He wasn't sure if it was entirely true, having never eaten anyone else's bread, but it felt like the right thing to say.
"Maybe we will," Aster replied shyly. Oliver didn't know what to say to that, and in the silence his mother's screams seemed more audible, so he waved Aster over.
"Come here and look at this," he said, and ducked into the crawlspace under the counter.
"What is this?" she giggled as she got down on all fours and joined Oliver in the cozy space.
"This is my own house," Oliver said proudly. He'd said it often enough in his head, but he was happy to be able to say it out loud to someone else.
"I like it," she said, feeling the oak panels. Even in the near darkness, her blue eyes still seemed to have a certain sparkle to them.
"I come here when it's raining," he went on, hugging his knees, "or when Holly's looking for me. Or when…when…" he didn't know how much he could trust Aster, and couldn't finish his sentence. "It's a secret, though. This place," he finished lamely. "You won't tell anyone about it, will you?"
"Of course not," Aster turned to look at him, her blue eyes solemn. "I'm good at keeping secrets." Oliver wondered what kind of secrets a girl like Aster had to keep, but before he could say anything, there was a loud, "Oliver! Aster!" from the top of the stairs. Both children jumped out from their hiding place as soon as they heard Holly's voice and shuffled towards the stairs.
"Yeah?" Oliver asked, squinting up at the shadow of his sister. The cries of pain were gone now, replaced by smaller, softer ones.
"Come up here," Holly said, nearly breathless with excitement. "Our sister—Azalea—is here."
Oliver scrambled up the stairs, tripping up a few, with Aster on his heels. They followed Holly down the hallway and into a room. The first people that Oliver saw were Mr. and Mrs. Guerison, who were beginning to gather their medical supplies. They looked much wearier than when they had entered the Mellark home. Then he saw his father, standing beside a bed, and his mother, who was in the bed. Lastly, he saw a bald, red-faced thing that could only be the newest member of the Mellark family.
"I thought babies were supposed to be cute," Oliver observed, wrinkling his nose. Holly deftly pinched him in the back of his arm. "Ow!"
"She's beautiful," Holly overcompensated for him. "Ollie, do you want to hold her?" Oliver nodded wordlessly, since it seemed the right thing to do. He sat in a chair as his father placed Azalea into his arms. Someone cleared their throat; it was Mr. Guerison.
"We're happy to have been of service," he said, and his voice reflected it. "We'll take our leave now, so that your family can celebrate in peace."
"Come along, Aster," said Mrs. Guerison kindly to her daughter. Aster hesitated only long enough to give Oliver a farewell wave and a partial smile before joining her family.
For a moment, Oliver forgot all about the baby in his arms and wondered when he would see the girl with whom he'd shared his secret house under the counter again.