Prompt : Here's a prompt, I imagine it in 12 after the war. Effie is feeling dizzy a lot and throws up and Haymitch gets like super scared she could be pregnant. She knows she's not but he doesn't and she doesn't know what he thinks so there's a lot of confusion and when he finally finds the courage to talk about it, she laughs and then she feels sorry and makes it up to him? You writing this would make me so damn happy. I can wait. ;)

Pregnant Women Get Toasts

His fingers were drumming against the kitchen table, his other hand was clutching the glass that he had yet to bring to his lips… Haymitch was thinking. Fast.

He wasn't great with dates. On most days, he wouldn't have been able to tell which day of the week it was, but they had been living together for about a year now and there were certain things that came and went every month with a clocklike regularity that he couldn't ignore. He was sure Effie was at least two weeks late. And the previous night she had told him she was dizzy. And now she was throwing up. At the crack of dawn. And she was late.

Saying he was panicking was a nice euphemism.

He heard her soft footsteps coming down the stairs and he finally brought his glass to his lips, feeling the need for some liquid courage. He didn't want to ask – he didn't want to know – but he needed to. It was one of his worst flaws : curiosity, the need to understand, the need to have all the variables in front of him so he could find the solution to the puzzle.

"Your tea's on the counter." he mumbled when she came in. She had stolen his old woolen blue dressing gown frayed at the wrists even though it was way too big for her. She was wearing red woolen socks but no pants which wasn't surprising given that she insisted on sleeping in frilly nightgowns and shorts even though winters in Twelve were nothing like winters in the city. "You're going to freeze. Can't you put some fucking pants on?" Usually it came out annoyed but fond, today it came out gruff.

She glanced at him with a frown but made a beeline for the cup of tea he had prepared as soon as he had come down to the kitchen. He hadn't been able to stay in bed and listen to her being sick in the next room.

"I'm sorry I woke you up." she said, after taking a sip. "I don't know what happened. It must be a bug."

He let out a noise that was halfway between a snort, a whimper and a hysterical chuckle. "Some way to call it."

"What do you mean?" she hummed. She took a seat next to him, letting her hand trail on his shoulder on her way. "Isn't it a little early for whiskey? You were doing so well…"

He had been trying to cut down, limit himself to three glasses a day. There were setbacks but he usually managed to keep his end of the bargain – her part was that as long as he didn't get wasted she couldn't nag him about his drinking habits.

"You're really clueless or you're pretending to not freak me out?" he snapped, taking another long mouthful. "'Cause you can cut the crap, sweetheart, I'm freaking out plenty already."

"Freaking out?" she frowned, bringing her own cup to her lips. "I'm fine, Haymitch… I don't even feel nauseous anymore. Peeta wasn't feeling great yesterday, maybe I caught whatever he had…"

"Except if you've been sneaking out behind my back with the boy, I don't think he has anything to do with this." he scoffed. "You're pregnant."

Saying it aloud was even worse.

Fuck, she was pregnant.

Pregnant.

With a kid.

A kid that would eventually come out.

A kid that they would have to protect – and raise, he figured, but protect was the main problem.

He rubbed his face, the blood rushing to his ears, his heart hammering inside his chest so hard he was half convinced he was having a heart attack.

There was a long silence on Effie's part. Shock, he guessed. She was entitled to it, he had lived through fifteen minutes of unhelpful denial while she was throwing up.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Pregnant." he snarled. "Knocked-up. A bun in the oven. Fucking pregnant!"

He lifted his glass in a toast. He hadn't meant to raise his voice but he ended up shouting all the same.

There was a giggle and then she burst out laughing.

"It's great one of us is happy about it." he scoffed. "That's not fucked-up at all."

She was having trouble restraining her laughter. She reached for his hand. It wasn't until her fingers were tightly wrapped around his that he realized he was shaking.

"I'm not pregnant, Haymitch." she said.

"Yeah, you are." he growled. "Don't fucking lie."

"I think I would know." she scowled, not so discreetly rolling her eyes. He had a terrible influence on her.

"You're late." he spat. "You're late and dizzy and now you have morning sickness and the day before yesterday you were complaining about missing strawberries…"

She started laughing again, so hard some tears spilled from her eyes.

"Oh my god, Haymitch! How long have you been mulling over that?" she chuckled. "I'm not pregnant. I swear I'm not. We can take a test if it makes you feel better but I was dizzy because I didn't eat much yesterday, I was already feeling nauseous. And this is nothing but a bug."

He searched her eyes but he she looked earnest enough.

"But you're late." he insisted.

"It happens." she shrugged. "I am getting old as loathe as I am to admit it, it's not as regular as it used to be. I'm not pregnant. I can't be."

She looked so certain, so calm, he felt his heart rate slowly calm down.

"Why so sure?" he pressed.

"Because… Well, I always had problems. Since my teens." she explained. "The doctors told me it is likely I wouldn't be able to conceive without a fertility treatment. The chance of me being pregnant… they're slim to none." She took a sip of her tea. "Trust me, I would know if I was pregnant."

"You're sure?" he insisted.

She nodded. "Yes."

"Sure sure?" he cringed.

"A hundred percent, Haymitch." she sighed, brushing his hair away from his eyes. She had been nagging him about getting a haircut because it was too long and she wasn't wrong. "We can still take a test if it makes you feel better."

"A blood test." he requested.

She sighed again but granted it with a half-shrug. "A blood test. Now, would you make me toasts?"

"Make your own toasts." he grumbled.

"You would make me toasts if I was pregnant." she pouted. "Maybe I should consider it…"

"Fine. Toasts." he snapped, standing up to fix her breakfast.

He wouldn't want her to get any ideas.