14. Twenty Weeks

Effie burrowed in her green woolen sweater as she hung up the phone and she hurried back to the living-room – easily the warmest room in the house. It was a grayish sort of day and she hated those. Snowflakes were lazily falling outside, slowly but surely making the roads unusable. It was common weather for winter in Twelve and it was precisely the kind Effie despised. It was cold and wet and depressing.

She shivered in relief when she stepped in the living-room and glimpsed the roaring fire in the fireplace. Nothing had moved in that room in her absence: Haymitch was still reading on the couch and Snowball was still lying in front of the hearth, chewing on his bone-shaped toy.

"That was short." Haymitch snorted, not glancing up from his book. The cover was glossy and she was certain it was the kind of cheap paperbacks he always claimed to be dreadful but often read in one or two settings. "Your mom had a stroke or something?"

Given that she had been spending quite some time on the phone with her Mother – and on a few tentative occasions with her sister – since her return from Four, she accepted the gibe good-naturally.

"It wasn't Mother, if you must know." she informed him.

She sat down next to him on the couch, unable to control her wince. How he could notice that when his eyes were glued to his novel was anyone's guess but suddenly the book was lowered on his lap and he was frowning. "You're okay, sweetheart?"

"Yes." she promised. "It is my back again. Nothing to worry about." She carefully lied down, using his lap as a pillow, her legs hooked over the armrest of the couch, her back flat against the cushions. The now familiar backache eased a little and she breathed a sigh of relief. He studied her attentively for a minute and she rolled her eyes. "I am fine. Won't you ask me who called us?"

He shrugged and propped his book open on his own armrest, draping his other arm across her torso. Her hands immediately closed around his biceps, her palms running over the soft grey sleeve of his shirt.

"Do I care who called us?" he mocked.

Annoyed with his pretending to be aloof, she rolled her eyes again. "It was Liam. Eileen delivered a perfectly healthy baby girl last night. It all went very well."

"Yeah?" he said, distracted. "Nice."

"Isn't it?" she grinned, lightly running her nails up and down his arm. She placed her free hand on her stomach, her smile softening. "I told him I would visit as soon as the weather allows it."

"Snow won't stick." he prophesized. "Not cold enough."

It was cold enough to her taste. "Then, I will go tomorrow."

He turned the page of his novel. "Take Snowball with you."

It sounded like a suggestion but it wasn't really a request, more like a demand.

She wasn't quite oblivious to what his plan had been when he had brought back a dog that would soon be roughly the size of a small pony.

She still wasn't one hundred percent certain the puppy had been a necessary addition to their household but, truth be told, Snowball was cute and he had claimed her heart before an hour had passed. He was a tiny fluffy ball of fur who always wanted to be cuddled and played with and just because he was so adorable she could get over the smell of wet dog that always clung to the house for a whole hour after Haymitch had walked him.

The puppy was all cute now but she had seen his mother. Snowball would be big and, while adorable, probably intimidating to strangers. Even now, as young as he was, he still stuck close to her heels when she wandered outside with him and she didn't know what sort of training Haymitch was putting the dog through but he did seem to take his guard puppy duties seriously. There had been one time, a couple of days earlier, when she had been talking with Sae and the woman had shouted after one of her waitresses and Snowball, who had been happily playing around her feet until that moment, had growled in a very threatening fashion. Raised voices in her vicinity – or Haymitch's for that matter – was a big no-no as far as the puppy was concerned.

She supposed it had been Haymitch's master plan all along.

But he had also really, really wanted the puppy. She hadn't been that surprised when he had brought Snowball home. Not only had she not been oblivious to the look he had given her in the Hob when they had met Riley and his dogs, he had also alluded several times to the fact it was a shame Katniss wouldn't take in one of them. There had been a spark of longing in his eyes, the kind that told her he had always wanted one and had always denied himself. She wanted him to be happy. If he wanted a puppy…

And she had no doubt Snowball and their boy would be best friends. It would be a good thing in the long run – because she didn't mind the idea of her son walking around with a dog the size of a pony ready to growl at threatening people either.

"What did they call her?" Haymitch asked.

Lost in her thoughts as she was, she didn't follow. "Who?"

"The Clarkes' baby." he clarified, a tad mocking. "What did they call her?"

"Oh… Fanny." she hummed, stretching a little.

She shifted until she found a comfortable position and closed her eyes. Haymitch didn't comment, too focused on his novel probably. His hand somehow ended in her hair and she immediately relaxed. She used to be really confused by his obsession for her plain blond curls but she had long grown used to it now. She loved it when he did that. It lulled her to sleep. She drifted off and she would have completely fallen asleep if the baby hadn't suddenly decided it was time to play once more – every time she tried to sleep, every time. She groaned and instinctively placed her hand against her stomach.

"Effie?" he worried.

"He kicked." she laughed in delight. It had never been that strong before. She usually felt him move inside her and there had been a kick or two but nothing that strong.

"Yeah?" Haymitch asked, the excitement was clear in his voice. The novel was dropped without a second thought when she guided his hand on her stomach to where she thought their baby's feet to be. It took almost a whole minute before he kicked again.

"Did you feel it?" she asked, peering up at Haymitch's face. The answer was written on his features. He looked in awe.

"Hey, shrimp." he whispered.

It almost brought tears to her eyes but she blinked them away before he could see them. He wouldn't have appreciated it.

They played at following the kicking with their palms until the baby finally seemed to go back to sleep. Their hands remained on her stomach long after the kicking stopped.

It was such a perfect day, she mused, despite the weather. The logs popping in the fireplace, the low growls of the puppy as he played with his toy, cuddling on the couch, feeling their son move…

There had been a time in her life, when she had been nothing but a rotting corpse who had forgotten to die in its cell, when she had thought she would never be happy again. She hadn't even been able to recall what being happy felt like.

This, right now, very much felt like pure bliss to her.

It brought up questions naturally. Why this pregnancy was different from the ones that had come before, for one. She still couldn't shake off the latent fear that something would go very wrong.

She had accepted during her time in prison that her life was at an end. It had been difficult to learn how to live again, to try… And she had tried in the Capitol after the war. And when she had failed…

Rushing to Twelve had been a relief. Admitting that her former life was a thing of the past, something that had died in her cell with the flamboyant Effie Trinket, had been a relief. She had been at her lowest when she had showed up on Haymitch's doorstep. She had been at a point where taking a handful of pills and going to bed to never wake up had looked like a tempting option. The feeling had worn off after a while. Twelve had helped in that regard. Leaving the city behind, finally accepting she wasn't the same person she used to be and never would be again… She had felt brand new after a few weeks. The same but different. Not quite as shattered but not whole yet. It was a distressing paradox but one she had learned to live with.

She watched Haymitch's fingers drawing ridiculous patterns on the stretchy waistband of her apple green woolen leggings – winter maternity clothes weren't as fashionable as she would have liked but she made it work with colors – and she wondered if it was the same for him. If the Haymitch from before the rebellion would ever have managed to accept the possibility of having a baby so readily – almost eagerly – if he would have managed to put his liquor down for the sake of his son.

And, she knew, deep down, that the answer was yes.

Haymitch hadn't changed that much. Peace had acted like a balm on old wounds and had smoothed his scars but… She couldn't help but feel the whole children debate had been all about circumstances, just like having a serious relationship… Anyone close to him would automatically have become a pressure point, a weakness to exploit. And he had lost so many people already… He hadn't been able to bear the thought of letting anyone in when the threat of losing them was a very distinct possibility, when his sole affection was a danger to them. And yet she couldn't help but feel that, even back then, if the threat had been removed, if he hadn't been so certain any loved one of his would die… He would have done right by their child. With more misgivings perhaps but he would have done what was right in the end.

That was the kind of man he was.

"It was never because I didn't love him or because I was scared I wouldn't love him." she murmured, suddenly needing to make her point clear.

The last months… They had been hard.

In another world, in another life, those months should have been just as happy as this moment, right then, but instead they had been hard. And she wasn't selfish or stupid enough to think they had only been hard on her. However, she was also not selfish or stupid enough not to realize most of that hardship had come from her. She was the one who had been so terrified of having a miscarriage that she hadn't been able to accept the pregnancy, she was the one who had doubted – and still did to some extent – that they could actually do this, she was the one who had wanted to seriously consider letting someone else raise their child…

"I know." he offered. It was calm and accepting.

"They tore me apart. Not just my body." she continued, her throat closing a little. Her sight was blurred with tears but she kept her eyes fixed on the hand he was now gently rubbing her stomach with. She didn't need to tell him that. He had been there when the rebels had patched her up. He had been there when she had been, for all intent and purpose, locked in a hospital room until the power-that-be could decide what they wanted to do with her. He had been there when she had collapsed in tears, when she had panicked so badly she couldn't tell where she was anymore or screamed herself hoarse from a nightmare – he still was. He had apologized a thousand times for every scar, had kissed every scar… He had been there every step of the way. She knew, on some level, he understood but she needed to say it. "They broke me."

He was silent for a moment and then his hand left her stomach to cup her cheek. The angle was a bit awkward but she leaned in his hand all the same. She could feel the tremor in his fingers yet she couldn't tell if it came from anger or from the lack of liquor.

"They didn't break you." he countered. "They fucked you up but they didn't break you."

"Language." she rebuked in a broken chuckle, placing her palms on her stomach. "He will hear you."

"I'm serious." he insisted, not quite falling into the usual banter she expected him to. "You're not broken, sweetheart. You're surviving. And if you're like me… Someday you're gonna wake up and you're gonna realize you're not surviving anymore, you're living, and it's… It's good. Yeah." His hand fell to her neck, his thumb running up and down her throat. "And it's thanks to you and the kids."

She licked her lips, the lump in her throat growing by the second, not quite sure how to respond to that.

"I love you." she answered because it was the truest thing she could think of.

His grey eyes, so serious for once, softened and his lips stretched into a smirk. "We're gonna be alright, Effie." He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck with obvious embarrassment. "I won't fall down the bottle again. Not with him."

"I know." she promised. And she did. It was hard for him. Nothing about sobriety came easily. It was an everyday struggle, an everyday fight. It helped that nobody in the District would sell him liquor because it removed the temptation. Their son also helped because he was determined to keep away from alcohol for his sake. But it wasn't easy. There were bad days – there were very bad nights – and he was a lot more anxious than before. She admired him for it, really. It was hard to give up a clutch he had relied on for so long. "I trust you, Haymitch. I trust you with my life and I trust you with our son's. It's myself I don't trust."

He scoffed. "Stupid. You're gonna be a great mom. That boy will love you."

"Let us hope so." she sighed and rolled over a little so she could sit up – it wasn't as easy as it used to be. She placed her hands at the small of her back and pressed, stretching to relieve the ache that had been starting to settle in. Then she pushed herself up and smiled when she saw the puppy lifting his head up and tracking her every move, hope shining in his dark eyes. "It is not dinner time yet. You are a stomach on legs, I swear."

Instead of feeling insulted, Snowball wagged his tail and ran over, placing his front paws on Haymitch's knees. Naturally, Haymitch humored him by petting him before leaning in to grab one of the toys scattered on the floor.

She wandered to the kitchen, leaving them to play fetch. She put the kettle to boil and peered outside, not quite happy to spot white as far as the eye could see. Big snowflakes were still steadily falling from the sky. It wasn't a storm by any mean but she wasn't sure she was as confident as Haymitch was about snow not sticking in.

She grabbed two mugs and she was just placing tea bags in them when she heard the unmistakable scampering of the puppy, followed by heavier footsteps. Not surprisingly, Snowball made a beeline for his plate and seemed disappointed to find it empty. He looked up at Effie with a pleading look that made her roll her eyes. She grabbed a treat from the bag on the counter and tossed it high, watching him jump to snatch it from the air.

"Knew you would like the dog." Haymitch taunted, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her neck. His stubble rasped against her skin in a familiar fashion that prompted her to let her head fall on his shoulder, giving him free access.

"Well, he is rather cute and fluffy. It was futile to resist." she joked.

He left an open-mouthed kiss on her throat, poking at the skin with his tongue, but instead of pursuing that train of thought, he then propped his chin on her shoulder. There was an odd tension in his attitude.

"I'm gonna say something…" he hesitated. "But I'm not… It's not second guessing, yeah? 'Cause I want the kid. I really do, sweetheart. And I meant what I said in Four, we can do it."

"Alright." she frowned.

Whatever he wanted to say, it seemed to be difficult because silence stretched up until the kettle disrupted it by whistling. He let go of her to turn off the stove and pour the hot water in the mugs. Then, and only then, did he speak, his eyes riveted on the now useless kettle in his hand. "I've killed eight people."

Her frown deepened. "Eight?"

He had killed seven tributes in his arena. She was certain, she hadn't been his biggest fan for nothing.

His eyes darted to hers and then away. He placed the kettle down and swallowed hard.

She reached out for his shoulder, relieved when he didn't shrug her hand away. "Haymitch, who was the eighth?"

His jaw clenched and his hands closed into fists. He looked both ashamed and furious. "After the surrender, when it was still chaos… There was a guard. One of yours. He wouldn't shut up, Effie. He wouldn't…" He shook his head. "That one I don't regret."

She felt as if someone had poured a bucket of icy water over her head. "You killed him because…"

"I killed him because he was a sick bastard who had hurt you and wanted to tell me all the details." he cut her off. "I'd do it again. I'd kill them all and not feel sorry for one second."

"You don't mean that." she refuted. She knew him. He might not feel sorry about killing someone who had tortured her but he would feel guilty about not feeling sorry.

"That's the thing." he snorted. "I do." He shook his head again. "I've killed eight people and I've failed to save forty-six kids. Add my family and my girlfriend to the mix… Fifty-seven dead. On me. Never mind Finnick, Chaff and the others…" He took a deep breath. "How are we going to explain to our son I'm a monster?"

She didn't give herself time to hesitate. "Easily. You are not. What you did in the Games, you did out of necessity. You had no choice."

"Sure, I did." he snarled. "I could have dropped the knife and…"

"No, you could not have." she interrupted firmly. "You are too much of a survivor, Haymitch. And you wanted to go back to your family very badly."

"For the good it did them." he chuckled bitterly.

"That was not your fault." she countered. "No more than the tributes. We did what we could, that's what you said. It was not enough and, yes, we bear a part of responsibility. But you did not kill them. If one of us did, it was me. I reaped them."

"Don't start with that." he grumbled. "Told you. You can take the whole blame for…"

"Then, neither can you." she snapped. "As for Finnick, Chaff, and the others… They knew what they were risking and I dare say none of them expected you to save them. You are no monster, Haymitch." She sighed and wrapped her hands around her mug, not quite minding the hot porcelain under her palms. "How will we explain me? I was an escort and… How will we explain that? It is worse."

"Is it?" he scowled and then shrugged, bending down to scratch Snowball's behind the ears. The puppy, probably sensing the mood was turning sour, had dropped his whole body on Haymitch's foot. "Maybe we can just… Look, maybe we can explain everything when he's old enough to really understand, yeah? It's not like we can hide it from him but… We can explain the general situation when he starts asking questions and, later… Say, when he's fifteen or sixteen,we can go in details."

"Do we have to?" she winced. "Perhaps he won't want to know."

"He's our kid. He's going to be curious." he replied. "And it's not right to hide it."

She still wasn't convinced but she let out a long sigh. "It gives us some time to think about how to tell him."

"Yeah." he nodded, a bit uncertain. "And… He's gonna have a solid brain anyway. He'll know… He'll get it was a different world, right?"

"I am sure he will." she offered with more confidence than she felt. It was obvious he needed the reassurance. She nudged his untouched mug in his direction with a small smile. "Drink your tea."

He did take a sip, tugging one of the furniture catalogs she had left on the counter closer. She had dog-eared some pages but she hadn't decided on anything yet. They hadn't really discussed what they were going to do with the baby's room yet.

"You want to put the nursery in the study or in the guest room?" he asked. "'Cause I was thinking… We should start painting. Peeta's been talking my ear off about letting him do it…"

"The guest room would be the best option, I think." she hummed. The study was downstairs and she didn't like the idea of their child being on the ground floor by himself. She didn't like the idea of going up and down the stairs every time he would need feeding either. "It might get a bit too sunny in the afternoon in summer but we could get a roller blind…"

"It's bigger." he agreed. "And there's a bathroom."

"Yes." she nodded, having taken that into account herself. "We need to make room in the attic or the cellar before you start taking the furniture apart though. Then Peeta can paint."

He snorted at that before taking another sip of his tea, flicking through the pages. "You've thought about him?"

He sounded very detached but Effie knew better.

"Peeta?" she frowned, confused.

He rolled his eyes. "Our kid. Imagine him, I mean. What he will look like."

There was excitement on his face and, maybe, some impatience.

"Oh…" she grinned. "Of course. I dreamed about him, even. He always looks like you."

"Funny." he snorted. "When I picture him, he looks like you."

She didn't think it was funny, she thought it was sweet.

She leaned against his side and pretended to look at the furniture on display in the catalogue.

"I do hope he has your eyes." she hummed.

"As long as he doesn't have my temper…" he joked.

That, she couldn't dispute.

Did you like this chapter? Let me know your thoughts!