A/N: I wasn't planning on posting this for another few weeks, but I simply couldn't resist! This first chapter is essentially a summary of the first fifteen years in the post-Mockinjay realm. I've got to admit, it's a little somber. But we all know that Everlark babies are blessings, so I promise, things will lighten up next chapter! (And at the end of this one, if you manage to make it through this sea of angst. Best of luck... you'll need it!)
Chapter 1 – "Fifteen"
Peeta
The first time I ask her, and I mean really ask her, a year has passed since she granted me permission to do so. Autumn has flooded Twelve full-force by the time she's due for the inoculation, and the week before she's scheduled to receive hers, I pull her into the bakery around lunchtime and sneak her to the back. With trembling fingers and an unsteady voice, I ask her the question that's been stinging in the back of my brain for weeks.
Do you want to try for a baby?
Maybe it was the brutal brusqueness of the question, or the lack of warning, or the fact that we've only been married six months and this question clearly petrifies her; her resolve suddenly steels and she doesn't react for ages. And then, abruptly, before I can rally an apology, she's bolting for the back door, disappearing into the dark hood of the woods. I wish I could follow her. But even if my clumsy footfall wasn't inapt for the forest, and even if I wasn't so directionally challenged, the woods are a slice of the world that belongs uniquely to Katniss in a union so personal she would shatter if it were to be broken.
Since we returned to Twelve two years ago, and even since she finally allowed me to marry her this past spring, Katniss has been unpeeling herself layer by layer to let me in… but she still needs space. I know that. She knows that. She may have found a way to open up to me, to tell me of her nightmares and personally hand me the needle that sews up her wounds, but her willing exposure can only exist alongside a few intermittent hours of isolation. The woods provide this for her. When she can't breathe, and she needs to think—about hunting, about the Games, even sometimes about Prim, as we've decided that facing our fears and our sorrows are the only way of conquering them—she can go there, to the trees, to her secret wonderland. And I accept it, welcome it, by extension. It keeps her alive and relaxed and happy, to some bizarre degree, and she always comes back to me at the end of the day. So I have no justification to complain. As long as Katniss is content, I can be as well.
And so, evidently, when I realize that I've so blatantly upset her by asking her if she's ready to have a child when we're only nineteen, I can't help but regret my boldness. It doesn't matter that I want a baby—maybe not now, but eventually—because Katniss is hurt, at my hand, and that is a reality I simply can't stomach. She already has enough weight bearing down on those slim shoulders of hers; how dare I burden her with any more?
The rest of the day drags impossibly slowly at the bakery with self-deprecating thoughts swirling in the back of my mind. At around four o'clock I surrender, closing the shop early—perks of being the owner—and tell my two trusty employees to head home for the night. If it weren't for Haymitch and the second-eldest Hawthorne, Rory, I'm sure my bakery would be in constant chaos; Rory's consistently hard-working and lightens up the place, and Haymitch can at least tally at the register when things get hectic. I'm sure the job serves as an advantageous influence for our old mentor, too, as it keeps him relatively sober and provides him with some much-needed structure.
My walk home seems to stretch a thousand miles, and once I reach my manor in the Victor's Village, my stomach only drops further. All of the rooms are dark, the air stagnant and cold from a day of disuse. Katniss isn't home, I tell myself. But after staggering up the stairs, I notice a thin line of luminescence pooling at the base of the bathroom door; I knock in a frenzy, my hands stiff with tension, but no reply comes, and with panic surging through my veins I push my way into the room.
I find her tucked up in the bathtub, the still water slicing off at her chin. Grey eyes focused on the surface, lips pressed into a hard line, sopping hair still pleated in a tousled braid… she hasn't look so disheveled in months. The wave of understanding that this is my fault, that I've done this to her, stirs my blood and sends resentment for my own stupidity bubbling in my throat. So I crouch by the side of the tub, my fingers parting through the film of liquid and grasping at her hand beneath the water, and I tell her, over and over again, I'm sorry, Katniss, until she has a hope of believing me.
For the first five years, my enquiries are tentative; thankfully, she doesn't run away again, but maybe that's because she begins to anticipate the question. I ask her the week before she's scheduled for her pregnancy shot, every year, until it becomes a hopeless habit that can only be broken with one remedy. An answer I want to hear but know will never come; an answer she wants to give but is too afraid and too broken to provide.
At first, this reality is not too difficult to accept. Although she may be healing, the games, the war, and losing Prim have all sequestered parts of Katniss she may never win back. She hasn't yet conquered the nightmares, and on some mornings she can hardly bring herself out of bed, so if she says she's not ready for a baby, I understand. I would rather see Katniss comfortable in her own skin than see her struggling to mother a child she doesn't yet want. I hold tight to my belief that if Katniss would become a mother, she would learn to love that child even more than she loves me—after all, she was more of a mother to Prim than our own mothers were to us—but I don't tell her this. Katniss may have lost bits and pieces of herself because of what she's had to face, but she is still impossibly stubborn and has a short fuse. Yet that's one of the many things I love about her, however masochistic the notion may be. It makes her who she is: the beautifully wild Katniss with every perfect flaw. And one hell of a temper.
Instead of spending those first years of marriage aggressively coercing her into premature motherhood, I occupy my time with loving her ferociously, unconditionally, until she begins to believe that she is deserving of affection. It took some time to discredit her firm belief that she hasn't earned love, that I wouldn't always be there for her, that I was better off without her—is that even possible?—and that she couldn't actually be wanted. It was because of her that I managed to overcome what the doctors in Thirteen said I never could. I still have hallucinations, but most of my memories of her before it all have been restored; I remember most everything now. From every scar to every freckle in her silver eyes. Because of her. Because of all of the patience and the time that she gives to me every day.
In this stretch of time, I fall in love with her more and more with the passing of each hour, from the way she tucks my hair behind my ear, how she arches into my kisses, how she scowls and it's hilarious and beautiful and can be so easily wiped off by my endeavors of peppering kisses over her cheek, neck, collar. Katniss is so easy to adore. Our marriage may not be perfect, as I doubt anyone can boast something so unattainable, but there is never a day in which I wake wishing I was anywhere but with her, her warm body folded in my grasp.
On the fifth year, when I ask her, she alters her response. It's still an ultimate "no," but the delivery is far more elevating. We're lying in bed, sticky with sweat from just a few moments ago—on our wedding night, she made me promise to make love to her every evening for the rest of our lives, which is an oath I've had little difficulty upholding—when I bid:
What do you think for this year?
With my fingers trailing lazily up and down the contours of her spine, she arches slightly in my grasp, her hands working through the sweaty curls at the nape of my neck.
I think I'm happy, Peeta. I really like things the way they are, with you. I don't want it to change.
I smile and press a chaste kiss to her nose, because even greater than my longing for a child is my longing to see her at ease, which is a sensation she's hardly ever come to know. I've done my best to give her all I can, to create some sort of foundation for her to plant her shaky feet on. And if she feels safe with where she's at, I've done my job right.
She uses this same justification the following year, and then the year after that. Its reiteration chips my strength away ever so slightly, but I swallow any rising dissatisfaction. She doesn't need to see even just a sliver of impatience weathering me down. Katniss has a morbid propensity of blaming herself for the pain of others and if she notices something in me, something wrong, she may turn that on herself. So I grin and bear it.
But I must be far less successful than intended, because by the time the eighth year rolls around, I begin to see something rooting deep inside her, something dark, something all-consuming. When I ask her at dinner that night, she can't even muster a response; instead, she thrusts herself out of her chair and shuts herself away in our bedroom, dissolving to a sobbing heap underneath the comforters. It takes me hours to sweet-talk her out from beneath the blanket, and when I do, she sobs into my chest for the remainder of the evening in a string of self-effacing wails.
I'm not good enough for you, Peeta.
I can't give you what you deserve most.
How can you want me when I can't give you a baby?
It kills me to listen to this, to think she actually believes it. Can't she see that the thing I want most is for her to be happy? I don't need a baby. What I need is to see her stunning smile every morning, hear that musical laugh, listen to her quiet lullabies on nights we both can't sleep. I want a baby knowing that it'll be a tiny division of her, just another fraction of Katniss that I can love more than life itself. And maybe that's selfish of me. But the sole element of this earth that keeps me anchored into reality, that keeps me breathing, is my impossibly magnificent wife. She alone is more than enough for me, far beyond what I could ever possibly deserve.
In the aftermath of this relapse, I decide Katniss needs to breathe, and we take our first vacation away from Twelve to visit her mother and Annie in Four. She's jittery at first, to say the least, but something about the saline tang of the air and the heat eventually erodes away at her harsh edges. We stay at her mother's small cottage on the beach, occupying our mornings with shoreline strolls and the occasional dip, returning to our guest room in the afternoon to unravel together, taking the time to kiss and to touch and to love by any means possible, no constrains, no worries. It is here more than ever that I begin to notice just how beautiful Katniss has become; how she's traded her slim frame for soft, divine curves, how tiny lines have begun to web from the corners of her eyes from smiling so much, how unbelievably strong and soft her arms and legs are. It's overwhelming, and arousing, and captivating all the same. In the past decade since our return to twelve, Katniss has truly become a woman, with every implication and perfect consequence.
Things are better for a while after our visit. Her relationship with her mother has always been strained, only alleviating temporarily after she attended our wedding, but both of us like to believe things are calming between them. Katniss will probably never be able to commiserate with why Mrs. Everdeen did what she did to her and Prim, but she's learned to love her, just as she's learned to love all else that truly matters.
Likewise, she's grown to appreciate Johanna Mason's companionship more than I could've predicted, too. The two of them are different breeds of fire that miraculously coexist; maybe that's why Johanna and Gale get along so well as well. Katniss and Gale foster the same flame against which Johanna's has become so compatible. For Katniss, it may always be a little awkward that her old best friend is with her new one, but having Gale able to refocus his attention from my wife to his own lover is gratifying and relieving for not just her, but me as well. The relationship has brought Gale back into our life, yet it holds him at an arms-length, curbing him at a safe distance. Katniss does need him to some extent, regardless of how she detests to admit it, because he represents one of the limited factions of her old life she still yearns to remember. But she does not need him close. For that, the selfish, minutely jealous part of me is interminably appreciative.
By the time ten years have passed, and then eleven, and twelve, Katniss has painted the two of us into a reality so stable and so oddly comforting that I finally accept my aspiration is hopeless. It's a reality I've known all along, but have been too petrified to admit.
Katniss doesn't want children. At all.
And so on the thirteenth year, I ask her out of habit—and nothing else, except thwarted desire—over breakfast, and she takes all of five seconds to turn me away. I accept it with a smile as I always do, too afraid to hurt her; she's happy, which is one of the chief justifications for why she doesn't want a baby. She's afraid that any interruption to the perfect pattern we've obtained could send her swirling back into relapse, into living in constant terror again. I know that this is not true, but Katniss doesn't, and I have to respect her wishes.
But I can't bring myself to quit asking her. The question has become so deeply engrained in the front of my brain that nothing could possibly erase it; I've become nearly robotic, tumbling through the motions as if I'm following the same recipe autumn after autumn.
What about this year, Katniss?
Every fall, every year. The question, and the answer, are always the same.
On the fifteenth year, when she stretches up on the tips of her toes, bidding me farewell with a kiss before I head off to the bakery as she does every morning, I force out the question once more. This is the last time, I tell myself, defeat ringing in every corner of my body, my muscles strained and exhausted, my throat thick. I haven't been sleeping well these past few months, rocked with constant dreams of cribs and giggles and bundles and all things that make me feel as miserably nostalgic as they do unmanly. After all, nearly every last one of our friends have found themselves with a child or two, and it pains me to think that I'm the last standing.
Now, all I can think about is tiny fingers and toes that curl, gurgling squeaks, and her eyes on a child with my hair or vice versa. The greedy side of me has begun its overzealous tirade, wishing for more of Katniss to love and to nurture in the form of a baby; but Katniss is enough, I tell myself ceaselessly. She's more than I ever wanted, giving me a love greater than what I prayed for every night when I was younger. She loves you, Peeta. That'll suffice.
But even those constant repetitions hardly numb the ache that grows each season.
And so when I ask her on that fifteenth year, my muscles tensing as they brace themselves for the eminent rejection, it pierces me at a new angle when she doesn't even respond. My core twists as she kisses me once more, that apologetic expression lodging in those silver eyes I've fallen in love with more and more each day.
She says, "I'll see you for dinner, alright?" And that is all.
The day at the bakery elapses more painfully than ever, as I attempt to smile for not only Haymitch and Rory, but every solitary customer that wanders through the shop, mining deep down in my chest for some sort of energy. I even fish for the resentment I expect to be there, but it's absent, as it's always been. I could never resent Katniss. Myself, yes—for wanting something so blatantly out of reach, and disgracefully convincing myself that it was an actual possibility—but never my wife. I simply love her too much.
Instead of bitterness, or deep misery, or even a flicker of hope for the following year, I surprisingly find nothing. I don't know what I feel, what I should feel. How am I supposed to carry myself after being rejected by my wife for fifteen years—by the love of my life, of course, which naturally makes things far more complex—to have a baby? Neither of us are to blame. She doesn't want to be a mother, and I want to be a father. For the first time in our marriage, I suddenly feel so inadequate; our differences, in the past, have always been what brought us closer. Her stubbornness and my tolerance. Her fire, my peace. Her need for love, my willingness to give it. Her ability to restore my old memories, my ability to provide her with new ones. Her addiction to cheese buns, my talent for baking.
It's always worked out so well.
So where did this unassailable divergence arise? How?
I take my time closing the bakery that afternoon, partially out of lethargy and partially out of dread for going home, for facing her. For finally admitting defeat. On the walk home, I map the conversation in my head, hopelessly arranging phrases into something satisfactory. I'm not going to ask you any longer for a child. Or, I'm sorry for dragging you through this for so long. Or, I'm really, really tired, Katniss.
But when I push my way through the front door, every accumulated idea immediately dissipates as I'm greeted by an uncharacteristically buoyant Katniss. She bounds up to me, wrapping me in those slender, accommodating arms, arching herself up into a tender kiss.
"Welcome home, love," she greets, a flash of esteem filtering through her expression.
And although I can't so easily forget the ache, it wanes slightly, overcome with pleasure from seeing her with such an authentic grin. My beautiful wife, my best friend, the majestically sublime Katniss…
A crinkle forms in between my brows, my nose lifting in the air. "Something smells good."
She bites down on her bottom lip in that adorable way of hers, which she always does out of contented humility.
"I made you dinner."
Although Katniss is well able to take care of herself, and has been for over a decade now, we've routinely left the cooking to me. It's what we've done since my return to Twelve—since Sae relinquished her position as Katniss's chef to me—and has become a habit too comfortable and too appreciated to break. I guess our marriage is all about habits.
She laces her fingers with mine and guides me to the dining room where she's set out two plates, piled with mashed potatoes and green beans and some sort of stew—rabbit? Squirrel?—and I notice that she's lined the table with candles, the gentle aroma of vanilla humming through the room, and—
"Katniss, what is going on?"
She chuckles. "I must be a pretty awful wife if it's a surprise every time I try to do something nice for my husband."
"You're not an awful wife," I tell her, which comes out far less flatteringly than she deserves, but still, it is one of the greatest truths I've come to know. We have our differences, but under no circumstances have I considered that Katniss was anything short of perfect. I attempt to make up for my lackluster response with a tender kiss to her earlobe, causing her to squirm as it always does.
We sit down to eat, and while keeping a hand arced around my knee underneath the table, she proceeds to ask me about my day as any typical wife would, although there's something lingering in her tone that sends my mind reeling. Something is off about her—certainly, it's not unappealing, as nothing is unpleasant whenever Katniss has that grin plastered on her lips that can move mountains and seal valleys, but it's alarming.
So, halfway through our dinner, I flatten my fork at the side of my plate with conviction. Her eyes widen in surprise at the gesture. "Peeta?"
I feel my muscles tensing, every last one, the rigidity rippling through my veins like a wave. "Katniss, please. I don't mean to upset you, but… I really need to know what's going on—"
"Yes," she says, firmly, surely, her eyes dark. And that's all she says.
My brows knit themselves together. "Katniss, this isn't exactly a 'yes or no' kind of question."
"Yes," she repeats, a little more insistent this time. She's holding her fork in between her index in her thumb, twirling it nervously, absentmindedly. Her face is blooming with color, but her eyes are pinned on me with stubborn resolution, and I can tell she's waiting to analyze my reaction, but to what, I am unsure.
What is going on?
I screw my eyes shut for a moment, pressing my lips together, shuffling through my mind for some method of decryption; Katniss has never been too difficult to read, whether she likes that or not, but in this moment, my mind runs blank.
My heart is pounding. "I really don't understand—"
"Peeta."
With the sound of my name falling sharply from her lips, my eyes flicker back open to greet an expression I could've never predicted.
She's smiling. That beautiful, radiant, all-consuming smile.
And in a voice so soft, so uncharacteristically gentle, as if her acceptance is a lullaby to fend off every last hindrance of my pleasure, she sings the four impossible words I've been waiting to hear for fifteen years.
"Let's have a baby."
Tell me what you think - reviews and PMs are always appreciated! And, of course, you can find me on Tumblr at avoirlalumiere.