"Why won't this baby just come?" she shouts across the yard.

I never thought I'd see the day when Katniss Everdeen started waddling. But my wait is apparently over because here she comes across the grass, the exaggerated roll in her hips propelling her forward. I feel just a bit of relief at first, because she looks better than I've seen her lately, especially since those few weeks when the kid kept coming home to find her hidden in the closet. Now she's less agonized and more annoyed. I suppose that's a good sign. Good for her; not necessarily good for me.

It had been a pretty nice afternoon before this. I like April. It's a pretty easy month. Not too wintery, not too many horrible memories, but not too many good ones either. I'm not sure which is worse to think about. It's too early to feel the dread over the Reaping that I still manage to feel every year, even though they're over and done with. Most importantly in April the trains can almost always run. Days like this, I sometimes even come out and sit on the porch during the day, watch the geese peck at each other. Of course, now I wish I had stayed inside, because I have no clue what to say to this one.

"I hate being pregnant," she mutters, easing herself onto the edge of the porch stair about a foot away. I lift my eyebrow and look at her. Is she kidding? Is she really going to make this that easy?

My caustic response is on the tip of my tongue as I reach beside me for my bottle, but then I feel a whoosh of air and hear a thud. Looking down, I see that there is a knife vibrating between my fingers, her small hand grasping it tightly. I don't react. She knows what she's doing. "Keep your mouth shut," she growls. Then she sighs heavily and leans back on her hands. Reclining like this, she looks like the beached whale I saw in Four during my own Victory Tour. They were too busy "celebrating" the Quell victory to help the thing, and it died flopping helplessly on the sand, like a lost relic from another age.

Kind of like me.

With those pleasant thoughts in mind, I do believe it's time for another drink.

Moving my fingers carefully so they don't get cut off, I take the bottle around the neck and lift it to my lips. The swig is longer than I normally would dare with this stuff. Effie hasn't been here in weeks so I'm back to white liquor. Pretty soon, even this is gonna run out. With Ripper dead and gone, no one here makes it the way they should, and it wasn't exactly the Elixir of Life before. I'm pretty certain our newest amateur distiller makes stuff that could take the paint off a house. It burns for hours, and it makes me throw up half the time, despite the fact that I've been drinking enough to kill a lesser man for a bit shy of half a century.

But for this conversation, I'm gonna need it.

I try to hide my gasp as the alcohol sears its way down my esophagus. "Sweetheart, don't you wanna talk to your mom or Annie or something? Or Johanna? Or literally any woman? I don't know what you expect me to say." Her nose scrunches up and her eyebrows furrow. It isn't easy for her to be here, so she must be in some kind of a state, but that doesn't necessarily matter. I'm not equipped to deal with this.

Clearly, she doesn't agree, because she begins talking anyway, "I can't do things. I'm stuck in the house, or the bakery, or wherever Peeta is. He's so attentive it's driving me crazy. I just want to be alone."

"So you're talking to me in the few minutes you have away from him? Great plan."

She stiffens, and I know I need to back off.

"It's not that I'm sick of him, damnit!" her eyes are fiery and furious, as though I'd ever even dare to suggest such a thing, which, I might add, I didn't, but she's always putting words in people's mouths, even mine. "I'm sick of myself. I need space, and I can't have it, because it's worse when I'm alone. I get… scared."

"I'd imagine having something growing inside of you is pretty terrifying. Had a kidney stone once. Was damn awful. Didn't name it, though."

She's upset, that much is obvious, but it's a lot more serious than her normal, "Someone asked me for my autograph today," or "Plutarch won't stop calling," or "Nick and Alder smeared honey all over my bow," complaints, yet somehow less than the rare times when she's just crawled out of a hiding place and I know before she even says that it's something like "We had a fight because he knows how to love and I don't," or "I dreamt about the woman I shot in the Capitol, when will it ever stop?" or the worst one "Almost everyone we touched is dead."

This fear is… normal. I guess? Damned if I know what normal is. But I think women are supposed to be afraid when they're pregnant. And Katniss Everdeen has a lot more to be scared of than most.

"What if I can't love it?" she blurts out.

I snort, "That's stupid."

It is. Probably one of the dumbest things I've ever heard. She thinks she can't love people right, but she's, of course, completely wrong. Even if we didn't have the historical Primrose example, I see the million little things she does for the boy all the time. Half of them I don't even know if he picks up on, she's so damn sneaky about it. The less likely he is to notice, the more likely she is to do something sweet for him. But it's not limited to the kid. I see how in the dead of winter when she sure as hell isn't hunting, she hikes out to the woods to check up on Rory Hawthorne even though he's about a quarter crazy and as conversational as a hollow log. Little Posy, well, I guess she isn't so little now, but the younger girl thinks of her as the closest thing to a sister she has. Even I'm always fed and generally cared for, even though I haven't cooked anything, or even bought food in probably twelve years. It's not only Peeta who makes certain that happens.

Katniss knows how to love people extremely well. She just doesn't know how to do it openly.

Can't blame her there.

My response didn't earn any glares, she just looks even more worried. "What if I love it too much?"

"Then you can join the damn club," I say without thinking.

Her eyebrows shoot up so high I can see about four hundred wrinkles in her forehead. Guess I went a little too heavy on the bottle, saying things like that.

"What?" I shrug, as though what just came out of my mouth was not a big deal at all. "You think it's easy, having kids? Obviously you don't, you waited long enough to have 'em. It's a risk. The thing could literally die any second, messing with ovens, climbing trees…" I'm digging myself an even bigger hole here. "Kids are nothing but trouble. But then, so's everyone else. You're definitely gonna love the thing too much. That's the way it works. Either too much, or not enough. Never just right."

She's staring at me, lips curled, like I said something that's going to make her either cry or throw up. I'm not certain which. Being pregnant has made her so damn emotional.

"When you talk like that I feel guilty," she murmurs softly, so unlike herself that I wonder if the kid managed to put more than just a some little version of himself in there. They certainly go at it often enough. I wish they'd close the windows in their room. You'd think in winter, maybe. But no. Man can't sit and look at the stars and have a solitary, tortured drink with his geese without hearing the two of them trying to break their bed in half. I'm not sure I want to meet this kid when I quite possibly overheard its conception.

Alright, I don't want to think about that.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I ask instead.

She seems to realize that she's accidentally crossed the barrier of sentimentality that we normally treat with something pretty close to reverence. "When you talk like a father," she mutters. Oh. Guilty. Because her dad is dead, but somehow I've become a kind of substitute. I wasn't exactly a willing participant. At least… I don't think I was.

I guess I'm not sure.

"I ain't your daddy, sweetheart," I scoff loudly, tightening my throat around whatever other sentimental nonsense threatens to jump out of it.

"Never said you were," she responds angrily, trying to cross her arms defensively, but finding that she can't span either her stomach or her chest, because everything's just so big. She stands suddenly, frustration spilling off of her in waves that are nearly contagious. I wish the boy were here. He'd be hovering the instant she stood up, which would annoy her even more. It'd be fun to watch and I'd be out of the line of fire. I wonder how she managed to convince him to give her space. Actually, I'm guessing he does whenever she asks, but she doesn't ask because, like she said, she doesn't really want to be alone.

"I don't want to be pregnant anymore!" she bellows as she storms towards her house.

"You're the one who didn't keep her legs closed, sweetheart!" I yell as she goes.

There is a flash and a thud. I turn and see her knife quivering in the post that holds up the porch. It's inches away from my face.

Nice to see that pregnancy has had no effect on her aim.


A few days later, the kid wakes me from my midmorning nap by physically lifting me off the ground and standing me up before I'm even a third of the way awake. For once, I'm too shocked to even pull my knife. I'm too busy trying not to fall flat on my face. The room is spinning.

"Go to town and get the midwife," he says, walking towards the door. Doesn't even ask. Just says. As though his method of reviving me weren't belittling enough.

"I'm not your damn errand boy." I try with little success to get my balance. It's hard to look adequately affronted when I'm staggering around.

He turns and his eyes are like icicles, but his voice is even, matter-of-fact. "Katniss is in labor. She's been having contractions for three hours, and just decided to tell me. I'm not leaving her for any longer than the time it takes to wake you. Get the midwife now or I'll break all of your fingers, and then you'll run to town and get her." He's just about out of the door, when he bends over to pick something up, then turns and lobs it directly at my head. He doesn't even close the door behind him, just stomps off. Still half asleep, it takes a few moments to realize that he's just hit me in the face with my shoes.

"What's the deal with the threats?" I mutter.

I guess I'm running to town to get the midwife. Hopefully someone there knows who the hell that is.

When I finally get my shoes on and stumble out the door, I see the woman of the hour herself, pacing in the yard. She doesn't look in too much pain. Just really uncomfortable.

"Boy made it sound like the kid was halfway out," I call to her from my porch. Clearly I don't need to rush this. Pretty sure babies take their damn time being born, especially the first ones. She doesn't say anything, just grunts. The closer I get, the more obvious it is. She's real scared.

"Where is he?" I ask. The kid who burst in my house ten minutes ago would not have left her out here wandering in the yard. A crash from their kitchen, followed by a string of language that's almost enough to make me blush answers my question.

"He's nervous," she gulps out as her body is seized by a contraction. I finish making my way over to her. I don't know what would really help in this scenario. If something was trying to claw its way out of me and change my life forever, I don't think I'd want to be touched any. But my hand finds itself on her shoulder anyway. She grabs it and squeezes so hard the little bones are moving around. I let her. Figure it's the least I can do. "I told him I really needed cheese buns. He needs something to keep him occupied, or he's going to have an episode," That is something no one wants. I think if he missed the birth of his child because he was busy flipping out, he might do something pretty drastic. "They're nine minutes apart. I'm not even close to having this baby yet," she continues. There's an edge of hysterical panic in her voice. "I'm not certain it's ever coming out."

She still calls the kid "it," sometimes, even now. I guess I do too. Makes things a little less terrifying. I don't know why I have any reason to be terrified though. Don't have any use for little kids. Never have. Not too pleasant to imagine every child you see in the throes of an agonizing death that you had to lead them into, so I've kept my distance.

"Wish Hazelle was here," she grunts, and I'm not surprised that she wants her instead of her mother, who for reasons I'm not privy to, hasn't been involved much in this whole… ordeal. Unfortunately, though, the Hawthorne matriarch has been in Two for several months now, helping her son and daughter-out-of-law with their two-year-old twins, Jasper and Juniper. Not only were they an accident, just like their other kid, but Effie tells me they're damn-near feral, climbing curtains, ripping apart furniture, eating everything in the cabinets, and otherwise generally destroying the house in the moments when they aren't escaping into the cliffs. Hazelle was called in to help when Alder, her twelve-year-old grandson, caught Johanna on the verge of dangling his cackling little brother out the window by his foot. Somehow there were feathers and molasses involved. The specific details were a little fuzzy by the time the story got to me.

"What'dya need her for? It's not like you're alone out here." I pat the girl's back, trying to be encouraging, but just sounding sarcastic. Old habits, I guess.

She glares, "Because she's not an idiot."

I shrug, and my efforts to be helpful are rewarded by the door bursting open and Peeta stomping into the yard, "Haymitch, don't you have somewhere to be?" His face is nearly purple. It's pretty impressive, how far he's come, managing to be this upset without having an episode. Also pretty inconvenient for me. With all the energy he's expending in that kitchen, he could have run to town and back four times.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm going."

"Katniss, are you okay? Do you need anything?" he asks in an entirely different voice.

She smiles a pained little smile, "I just need to walk, but I would really love a cheese bun, Peeta."

He gives me a pointed glare and slams the door behind him as he goes back into the kitchen. I know she's not gonna eat a damn thing. It's nice to know that there will at least be some hot pastries waiting for me when I get back.

The trip to town is a wobbly one because, come to think of it, I don't think I've actually eaten anything since lunch yesterday. I realize halfway down the hill that I still don't know who the midwife is. Luckily, the first person I run into is Sally Alberts, Thom's oldest kid. They have about twenty of them at this point. She's old enough to communicate properly, maybe about eight? Her mom just popped out another baby, herself, so at this point she should probably know who came by the house when the kid arrived. There's a little flower stand set up outside the bakery, and she's manning it, all by herself. She looks Seam, but she has her mother's hazel eyes. She also doesn't really look Seam, because in my mind, Seam means emaciated, and this girl is, well, pretty robust, to put it gently. Thom's farm is damn near enormous now, and she gets to eat as much as she wants, whenever she wants. He even has a few cows, so she gets to have milk on a daily basis.

It's hard to imagine a kid looking better, frankly. Don't really like being around kids, but it does soothe the soul, not seeing them starving. She wouldn't make it five minutes in the arena, though.

"Hey peanut," I say.

She scrunches up her nose with distaste, "My name is Sally, Mr. Abernathy. Two Ls, one Y, no E."

"Okay, then, no-E-Sally," I make an exaggerated bow, "I have a question. Who delivered your mom's baby?"

"She did," the girl says, taking a disinterested sip out of a glass of water.

Not what I meant.

"No, I mean, who did the delivering? You know, like a midwife or a doctor?"

The girl sighs with annoyance, "She did, Mr. Abernathy."

It's at this point that I realize that I've left the house without a flask, or anything really to drink.

"Look, kid. I know where babies come from. I know your mother was involved. But who else helped?"

She hunches over and looks up at me, like I'm basically the stupidest thing she's ever laid her eyes on, "My dad."

This is what it's come to. Haymitch Abernathy, Victor, Mentor, Rebel leader, once a ruthlessly brilliant young man, now a worldly-wise, calculating, albeit drunken, old one, chatting about the facts of life with a chubby, eight-year-old girl. If Chaff could see this…

"Thanks kid," I mutter.

"Maybe you should ask my uncle," she offers with a shrug. "He's in the bakery."

I figure I might as well. The longer I take here, the more likely it is that the father-to-be is gonna lose it in my general direction when I get back. And then a few hours later Katniss will tear me to pieces, newborn hanging on for dear life.

The bell on the door jangles when I open it, and there is Vick Hawthorne, M.D., PhD, Director of Research and Development at the most advanced pharmacological institution in Panem, hunched over the counter, icing tiny little teddy bears on sugar cookies, a look of intense concentration on his narrow face. Why he's at the bakery instead of his real job is beyond me. I can only guess he's helping Peeta out.

"Why hello, Haymitch!" he grins, pushing up his horn-rimmed glasses as he stands. "I was under the mistaken impression that you never left the quiet sanctity of Victor's Village unless liquor or Miss Trinket were involved."

Age has not made this kid less of a pain in the ass. "Shut your trap, Hawthorne."

He sits down the bag of icing and holds up his hands in surrender, "No need to get heated! I was merely making a convivial observation."

"Oh? Well, let me make one, then: That bow tie makes you look like a damn fool."

He doesn't react in anger, merely grins. "I assure you, Haymitch, my wife does not agree. She's particularly fond of taking it off…"

I lift up my hand as well, but this is in warning. Something about the way I'm looking at him manages to achieve the impossible, and shuts him up. Today's pretty quickly turning into the day where I have to visualize every single couple I know going at it, and it's basically disgusting. I enjoy a ribald jape at someone's expense as much as any man, but this is just taking things to an entirely different level.

A level where I'm forced to think about Vick Hawthorne's scrawny ass is not a level where I ever want to spend any length of time.

"Who delivered Susie's baby? Or, forget that, who's the damn midwife?" I change the subject to the real reason I'm here at all.

His face lights up in delight and he runs around the counter and grabs my shoulders, "Has Katniss begun having contractions? How far apart are they? How has she described the pain? Has the baby dropped yet?" He looks like he's ready to start taking notes.

"So you're the midwife then?"

Vick turns a bit green at the insinuation and drops his arms, "Heavens no! I never touch patients. I'm more of a biochemist than a medical doctor. Pure research."

I sigh with frustration, and slam the counter with my fist, before I grab him by the collar of his starched white shirt and pull him down to eye level. "Vick, I don't care if you're a damn exotic dancer. Who takes care of the births in this town?"

"My sister-in-law," he gulps, eyes wide. Even scared, though, he can't seem to keep his mouth shut. "She actually delivered Lindy herself a few months ago, well, with Thom's assistance, I should say. The baby was somewhat premature, and eager to enter the world before someone arrived from the nearest hospital."

Oh. I guess that little girl wasn't lying.

I don't let go of him, "And where exactly would I find Susie right about now?"

"At home," he all but whimpers.

I let go, and he collapses against the counter. His neat shirt is rumpled, and his apron is askew.

"Thanks, kid. Have fun with those cookies."

The walk to the Alberts' farm is not that long, but it takes enough time to start making me more actively aware of the fact that Katniss is actually having a baby, and she does probably need some help in the process. So I jog most of the way, even though my kidneys scream at me and my knees grind the whole time. Out front, Thom is guiding a plow behind an enormous, greying horse. A little boy walks behind him, picking up rocks that the plow turns up and putting them in a satchel. Behind the little boy, is a toddler of uncertain gender, who seems to be picking up something else that the plow turns up, and sticking what is discovered in his or her mouth. As I get closer, I realize the kid is eating worms.

Children are absolutely disgusting. I've gotta hand it to the kid for being resourceful, though. Bug eating is definitely a survival skill.

Thom sees me and stops his horse, ruffling the tawny hair of the boy behind him before he holds his hand out in front of the mouth of the dark haired worm-eater. The kid spits out a mouthful.

They're still wriggling.

Good thing I'm accustomed to living in filth, otherwise I'd be physically sick.

Thom scatters them across the field and then picks up the kid, trotting over to me, while yelling something I can't make out to the other one. He runs into the house. I can't help but notice how useful that speed would be.

"Katniss needs Susie then?" he asks, shaking my hand with his dark, weather-worn one. The toddler looks at me suspiciously, a line of snot running almost into its mouth. I still can't tell if it's a boy or girl.

I nod, "Peeta won't leave the house. Insisted on sending me. Took a damn long time to walk down here. "

Thom grins, "Ya coulda jus' called, ya know. They gave me a phone, seein' how I'm mayor 'n all."

"The kid know about that?" I say darkly.

"Not sure. Maybe? He hasn't been too great at remembering things lately. Pretty stressed about the baby." The worm-eater starts to rub dirty hands all over his (or her) father's face. "Sent Sam to get her. She'll be out momentarily."

"What's this one's name, then?" I ask in an attempt to find out the gender of this child so I can stop referring to it as an "it."

Ruffling the kid's hair, he responds, "Casey."

Guess I'm never gonna know.

Susie marches out of the house towards us, a leather satchel around her shoulder and the fattest baby I've ever seen on her hip. She hands the baby to her husband wordlessly, who holds the two children with ease, and kisses his cheek. Without even a how-are-you, she heads over to the barn and a moment later, she's galloping across the field on an extravagance of a chestnut horse, honey-colored hair flying behind her. She looks damn gorgeous.

"She took to farming pretty well," I sniff.

Thom nods proudly, "Yep."

Even walking as slowly as possible, the trip home takes less time than I'd like. There is an unpleasant feeling in my gut that has nothing to do with alcohol or hunger. I feel like I need to be there for this, that I won't be able to forgive myself if I'm not. I also want to lock my door behind me and get so smashed I can't even remember what a baby is. I stop at the flower stand again, and make an impulse buy from the hostile eight-year-old that I instantly feel strange about. When I finally reach the top of the hill, the kid is pacing back and forth on the porch, tying and untying a length of rope. The horse is tied down nearby in the yard, so I know Susie is there.

"You alright, boy?" I call out, sitting my purchase somewhere that he won't see.

He nods, but doesn't stop with the knots.

"She alright?"

He stops momentarily, and swallows hard, "She's taking a bath, and talking to Susie. It's still going to be awhile. She's fine. She's fine. She's fine…" He continues to softly repeat this to himself like a mantra. I've seen him like this only twice. Once was in the Capitol right after Coin's assassination. The other time was when Katniss nearly froze to death shortly after they got married.

"Maybe you should just let go?" I shrug. "Get it over with."

"NO!" He hits the railing with his fist so hard that it breaks. Looking down at what he's done, his voice cracks and he snaps his eyes closed, "I need to be here for this. I can't go away. I have to be here."

I know he has pills, and even an injection, that will make this stop – Aurelius told me about them years ago, when he first came back – but they only work because they're powerful sedatives. And of course he doesn't want to be sedated during the birth of his first child. So we have to do something else. I have to do something else.

"Alright then, boy. Let's talk," I climb up on to the porch and grab him by the shoulders, pulling him down on the steps beside me. Can't really do this as well as I used to, since his shoulders are almost twice as broad as mine. I've seen him lift four hundred pounds like it was nothing. At this point, he could probably take down Finnick Odair bare-handed, if he were still around.

But now he's on the verge of crying, and I don't know what the hell to do about it.

"Look, when you get worked like this, you make lists right? So make a list."

"About what?"

I don't have a damn clue.

"I know you wanted this kid for years. So what are you gonna do with it? I don't know why people want kids. What they're even good for. But you clearly have some idea."

"I want to teach her to bake," he says quickly, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"So it's a girl then?"

"We don't know. I'd rather be surprised, and Katniss, well, I don't think she could handle knowing. Almost everything is overwhelming for her, she's so scared. But I always think of the baby as a little version of her. So a girl."

He seems to be calming down a little. "What else you gonna do with her then?"

"Paint. Take walks. Sing songs," I grimace at this. The boy could wake the dead with his caterwauling. He notices the face I'm making and grins through his tears. "Play hide-and-seek. Tell her the names of the stars. Look at clouds. Brush her hair. Dance…"

I nod. I guess those things don't sound completely awful, though they're not really my thing.

"Tell her about my family. About Katniss' family. Let her know how much she's wanted. How much she's loved."

He pauses.

"Keep her safe."

I put my hand on his knee before I push myself up, "You're not the only one who'll be doing that, boy."

There's no need to turn around as I walk to my own house. He'll be alright.

Inside, I leave the door open, so I can hear any commotion that comes from their house. That sorted, I dig through the pile of junk that has accumulated in Hazelle's absence to find my phone. Once I find it, I dial the only number I know.

"Haymitch! Peeta told me! Is everything alright? Is the baby fine? Is it a boy or girl? Oh Haymitch, why didn't you call earlier? I've been on pins and needles!"

"Calm down, Princess. Nothing's happened yet, except maybe the boy's lost ten years of his life from worry. And I didn't call because I was off getting the midwife. Just…" I need to tell her, so she doesn't worry over the reason for this call, but the truth's pretty damn humiliating, "I wanted to talk."

"You wanted to talk?" she sounds doubtful. She's usually the one who does the talking, gossiping about everyone we know. Good-intentioned always, but damn if it isn't annoying half the time.

"Our kids are having kids," I mutter. "Feels off."

"People have children, Haymitch," she says matter-of-factly, businesslike manner of the consummate professional taking over. "It's what normal people do."

I sigh angrily, "Yeah, well, we've never exactly been normal, though, have we?"

There's a small little noise, and I can tell that she's gnawing on her pouty bottom lip. I wish she were here. For a lot of reasons, not just because of those lips. But it's certainly part of it.

"No, we're not, but shouldn't this stil be happy? For goodness sakes, it's what you, what we fought for! I didn't…" her voice gets shrill and panicky, "I didn't spend time in two different prisons with two different," she gasps and makes a choking noise, "sets of guards just so they could waste away in Twelve doing nothing!"

Now I really wish she were here. "Eff, no, don't talk like that. Don't think about those things. You'll only…"

"My house and office are clean," she interrupts, no-nonsense tone drowning out the tears in her voice. "No pills. Don't worry about me. You're the one who's upset. You're the one who called."

"I hate kids," I answer darkly.

"That's a barefaced lie, Haymitch Abernathy," I can almost see her hair flouncing as she speaks.

I grit my teeth, "Every kid I see, I see all the ways he could die. All the ways he could kill. His strengths, weaknesses, all of it. They're all still tributes to me. I don't want to see another one. Especially one that I…"

"That you care about? Haymitch, the Mellark baby is not going to be reaped! There are no more Reapings! What exactly do you think I've been spending the past two decades doing out here? Painting my nails?"

"Can you promise that, princess? Can you look those two in the eyes and swear that you've made it so that nothing will ever hurt their baby? Cause I sure as hell can't."

"No," she admits readily, reminding me why I called her in the first place. "But you can either deal with that, and be involved in the child's life, or you can act like a coward and hide away in your little dungeon of a house."

"How do you still manage to be such a spitfire?" I chuckle, despite myself.

"It's likely because I've been speaking with you regularly for twenty years," she says airily. "Now, I have a meeting to attend, so if there's nothing else, please just call me when the baby arrives," I can hear her laugh a little, and she becomes overly excited once again, "Really, Haymitch, I am just about to burst. Do you know what they plan to name it? Peeta never will tell me."

"Girl won't even think about names till she has that thing wrapped up tight in her arms. But I'll let you know, princess. Don't you worry."

"Haymitch Abernathy, worrying has been my job all my life. I'm not about to stop on your account," with that, she hangs up.

I've just put the phone back, when there is a knock on my doorframe. It's Susie. Her hair is wrapped around her head, and little tendrils are falling all over the place, as though she's just had a grueling experience. "Katniss needs to talk to you," she exhales heavily.

"Me? Why?" I throw myself onto the couch. I do not want to go anywhere near that girl when she's in labor.

"Because she's terrified," the woman states.

"Doesn't she have a husband to deal with that?" I mutter into the cushions.

The midwife clicks her tongue, "I have been to enough births to know when the father needs to… take a break. Even if I didn't know about Peeta's situation, it'd still be pretty clear that this is most definitely one of those times. He's finally calmed down, but if he goes in their room and sees how worked up she is, he's likely to lose it all over again."

I turn and look at her, "How are you keeping him away? He's not exactly the type to stay out."

Her grin is so big it threatens to jump off her face and run around the room. "He's preparing a complicated remedy in the kitchen. I told him I desperately needed it to rub on her stomach but had run out last night."

"What's he actually doing?" I scoff. I sincerely doubt she'd show up at a house without everything she needed.

She shrugs, "Making me some ointment to put on my sore nipples. I'm sure Katniss will need it too. It's my standard worried-husband procedure."

I like this girl.

"I don't know where you managed to get so ballsy, shy little Susie, but I'd take my hat off to you if I ever was distinguished enough to wear one," I say, sitting up.

"Having six kids teaches you a thing or two," she shrugs again, as though no-big-deal is such a part of her life at this point that she just thinks it automatically. "Now hurry up. I don't know how long I can manage to keep him occupied. This isn't even my job, you know. I'm supposed to catch babies, not corral anxious fathers."

She seems mighty proficient at both.

I follow her over to the house, and we go in through the back door, passing Peeta who is stirring a pretty foul-smelling concoction over the stove. Before I am all the way through, he grabs my arm and stops me.

"Take this," he holds out a syringe with a disturbingly large needle.

I know what this is about. "Better than a frying pan to the back of the head, hm?"

He glares at me. Fifteen years, and I'm still not allowed to joke about that. "You have to be there. To make sure I can handle it. To stop me if I can't." The pain in his voice makes me cringe. I can't imagine how humiliated he must feel. I'll be there. I can't do anything else.

"You'll handle it, kid. Which is good, 'cause I'm not thrilled with the idea of sticking a needle in your ass."

He laughs. It's the first I've heard it all day. I slap him on the back and head up the stairs. I've gotta make this quick, because he's sure as hell not staying out much longer.

When I get to the room I find her curled up on her side under the covers. Even as big as she is in her current condition, she still looks tiny in the wide expanse of the bed. I can see the soft vibration of her trembling, and then she goes stiff, probably having a contraction. I don't know – I've never seen someone have a baby before. But I sit on the edge of the bed next to her.

Hell, I even take her hand.

"How's it going, sweetheart?"

She looks up at me and her eyes are filled with nothing but fear, "I'm not ready. The baby can't come. It has to stay safe."

"We both know that's not an option."

Her trembling gets worse, "I can't lose anyone else. I can't. And I can never protect them enough. Never. They're all broken or lost because of me."

"Sweetheart, it wasn't your fault," before I realize I'm doing it, my other hand is stroking her hair. She flicks her eyes up curiously, but says nothing. Neither of us is ever going to mention this again. "But you're right. You can't protect them. But you're the one who decided to do this. It was your choice. You didn't have to. So there musta been something stronger than the fear."

She squeezes my hand tightly. I don't think she's going to answer, just sit here wrapped up in worry, but she finally speaks, "In the Quell. Peeta, he… I had a dream. About a place where his child could be safe. It made me fight. Made the thought of dying feel worth it. But it's not finished if Peeta never gets to have a child."

"So you're doing this for him?" I know this is gonna egg her on.

"No!" she shakes her head angrily, squeezing my fingers till I can't feel them anymore. "Well, yes, I mean, he wants a baby so badly but… I… I've dreamed about that same child for fifteen years. I couldn't… couldn't let it go. I can't explain it, I'm not good with words. I just… finally realized I wanted it. And I never wanted one before. So," she looks down at her stomach, "here it is." Her eyes are wide with terror, but something else had joined them.

Joy.

"So let her come then," I shrug.

She frowns, "You don't know if it's a girl."

I stand up, "Well, you can just rub it in if I'm wrong. But I've got a feeling. Now, can we let the boy in? Midwife's got him downstairs making some kind of nipple cream. Course, he doesn't know that…"

She laughs, and then winces, a look of shock on her face.

"You alright, sweetheart?"

Her voice is hushed, disbelieving, "That one came a lot more quickly."

I've just opened the door, when she yells. The fear and joy and utter disbelief in her voice has only been there one time that I've ever heard. As I stand off to the side, letting Peeta and Susie through, I can't stop thinking about that idiot girl, screaming her district partner's name from the heights of a tree.

Watching a man watch his wife give birth is a strange experience, I gotta say. I have to be alert, ready to step in if he slips away. I know he won't, but I also owe it to him to be there just in case. So from the comfort of a chair in the corner, I watch his face and listen. There's not much to hear, only her quiet grunts and the occasional soft whimper. She's tough as nails, and after having her ribs regrown and the time in the burn unit, I doubt there's any sort of pain that she couldn't handle. What he says to her is softly whispered, only for her to hear, but the gentle light in his eyes never wavers, not once. Tomorrow, I'll give him hell for wasting my time, but today I'll let him have this moment. He's certainly waited long enough.

Susie is flawless. I hardly hear her, she just smoothly moves throughout the room, moving Katniss into more comfortable positions, and providing encouragement when it's needed. I'm pretty glad she's here for that, and also because it makes it a lot less awkward for me to be here. I realize that I haven't had a drink in twelve hours.

I've been too distracted.

She doesn't ask the kid to catch the baby, and I know why. He can't. Maybe he can handle the rest of it, but I'd imagine seeing… well… everything going on down there would be too surreal and generally bloody to risk. So his eyes never for a moment leave the girl's face. She never screams. Not once.

And I can't help it. I remember them. I remember every single one and how they died. With no booze, I can't make it go away. I see them, and I see this and I see the lives that they could have had. That they never had. That I couldn't give to them.

Something wet drops onto my hand and I realize that I'm crying for the first time in forty years. Damn it.

But while I've been busy thinking, there's been a lot of noise and action. The kid's face has changed from love to awe, glowing in the orange light from the setting sun that reflects off the walls in the room. There are tears there too, but I don't think he even realizes. I don't think he is aware of anything else in the world other than the one thing he's looking at. I'm pretty certain I know what it is.

Then there's a shrill cry that echoes through the entire house.

And I'm certain.

I excuse myself without looking. No way he's having an episode now.


I'm sitting on the front porch, grasping and ungrasping my fingers around the edges of the thing that I bought earlier when Susie opens the door, satchel on, ready to leave.

"They're wondering where you went," she smiles. "Katniss figured you ran off and started drinking."

I shrug. No point in telling her why I couldn't stay.

She walks backwards towards her horse. "They want you to come up, if you're willing," she calls as she goes.

Gift in hand, I go inside and slowly walk up the steps. I take my time, because I'm inexplicably nervous, so I look at the paintings and sketches that are hung all along the stairs. They're pictures of everyone we know, even me. I guess it ain't half bad. It's black and white, just ink. I'm sitting on my porch at night, light on, taking a swig from a bottle while I'm looking at the stars. I seem… old, but not really. It's pretty damn depressing, despite the kid's obvious skill.

Enough of this. I need to go up these stairs and get this over with. See the kid so I can tell Effie its name, then drink till I forget it.

I open the door without knocking, which is probably a mistake, but at this point, there ain't much of the girl that I haven't seen. Lucky for all of us, they're just cuddling on the bed. She's holding a bundle wrapped in a bright yellow blanket. I can't even see the head to figure out the hair color. The kid is behind her, arms wrapped around them both.

She looks at me and I don't think I've ever seen her smile a smile that big.

"You were right," she croaks. I can tell she's been weeping.

"I'm always right," I grunt, standing awkwardly where I am. "But it'd help to know what about."

"I already love her too much."

I shrug, and hold out the primroses that Sally Alberts sold to me. "Figured the room could use a little plant life."

The girl smiles, and then cries, and then smiles, and for a long moment, I just stand there like a damn fool while the kid pulls her close and whispers things in her ear. I'm worried for a minute that they're both irritated with me for bringing the dead into this situation, but no one seems to be yelling, so maybe it's alright. He stands, and then takes the bundle from her. She almost doesn't give it up, but he whispers something again, something that makes her laugh.

Then he's walking towards me. "Haymitch, allow me to introduce you to Hope." He's holding her like he's been doing it all his life, but before I can stop him, suddenly he's taken the flowers out of my hands and filled them with baby instead. It's like holding nothing, she's so tiny, but I can feel her rooting towards my chest, snuggling close. I look down. The blanket has fallen back, exposing a pair of the bluest eyes I've ever seen underneath a shock of curly, dark hair. She looks at me. I look at her.

And then it happens. Something I thought would never happen again.

I fall in love.

"Hey there, firefly," I mutter gruffly.