AN: I've expanded and revised the original Beholden one-shot after re-reading the full Redux arc. Some questions popped up, like what happened after Gale got Madge home? Wouldn't she have a bruise and what would the fallout be if she did? What happened when her housekeeper noticed the lack of groceries? Why does Madge brush her wavy hair in ch 7 of CF?! And how did the Victory dinner go that Katniss doesn't bother to describe.

The expansion will include 6 additional chapters and a chance to spend more time with the Undersees, Katniss, and Darius. And I've taken some liberties with the Victory Tour timeline to make more room to ruin Madge's life. Because I love her. Obvies. The story will continue in Repaid, which has also been revised and expanded.

Beholden

…Her parents seem nice but I don't think she sees a whole lot of them. Her father has District 12 to run and her mother gets fierce headaches that force her to stay in bed for days… — Katniss

"But you can't go to the Capitol unless they invite you." — Madge

"…shots of crowds around Panem show a country besotted with happiness." — Katniss

Part 1

My mind feels foggy from staying up late last night watching the last of the televised Victory Tour before it returns to Twelve tomorrow. Today the channel will be full of recaps of the biggest news to rock Panem since Gamemakers announced two victors last summer. The recaps will fill the void created by a travel day. But as it's not required programming, other tasks must take precedence in the mayor's house. Like burning breakfast.

I'm taking advantage of the greater warmth by the old coal stove, slicing up the last of the braided cardamom bread from the Mellark's bakery, when Dad comes down to the kitchen. The house is old, so I can hear him advance down the stairs with each squeaking floorboard. He hasn't learned the quiet spots, like I have. But then, it's his house. He doesn't have to sneak.

When he ducks into the kitchen, I see he's fully dressed for the day. Complete with tie. It's going to be that kind of Sunday, then. Poor Dad.

A couple of slices are still toasting in the bread clamp and just barely starting to get a hint of that caramelized scent, so I hand him the toast I just finished and decide to wait for the next batch. Though not very sweet, the cardamom bread tastes so good with its citrusy-peppery notes that it doesn't need butter or jam or anything. That also makes it easy to serve.

"Morning, Dad. Did you check on Mom?"

"Yes, I did. She's down for the count," he says as he rubs the last vestiges of sleep — or perhaps worry — from his eyes. Then he says dryly, "Does Hanna know you can light the stove?"

Hanna's our housekeeper. She has the weekends off so she can terrorize her own family for a change. For as long as I can remember, she's spent all of her Fridays at the house stocking the convalescing fridge with meals we can pull out and reheat easily. Because none of us cook. Well. My mother did once. But even I don't remember that too clearly.

"Don't you dare tell her," I mutter as I monitor the bread. "She's threatening to domesticate me all of a sudden."

Dad turns the toasted bread over in his hands, dropping some of the special pearl sugar and sliced almonds onto the floor. "It's not a bad idea."

Just whose idea was it?

I give him a pained look and wish I'd had a warning that he would wake up this gloomy, wintery day and choose violence. Why does it have to be me? I know why. Dad works all hours of the day and Mom never feels really well enough. Still. I feel victimized by the threat of cookery.

"Don't you want something better than reheated leftovers on the weekends?" he angles, appealing to a sense of taste and desire for variety that he must think we share.

"I like leftovers. Oh, there's coffee, if you want some."

"Coffee, too." His eyebrows rise. I normally fix tea. "You're already halfway domesticated. It would be a shame to stop now."

"Listen, Dad, I can be an indifferent cook or a great pianist." I turn the metal basket over, showing that some of the bread has burned a little on the crust. "I cannot do both."

Dad blinks. "That is a dilemma." Then he asks, "What's the advantage of a music career over eating?"

I shrug. "Maybe if I play well enough I'll be invited to the Capitol. And if I'm invited, then maybe they'll invite Mom too. Then she can see one of their doctors." There. My ten year plan in three sentences. I can reduce it further: Fix Mom.

Dad manages to turn his knee-jerk grimace into a twitchy kind of smile while he pours himself coffee and goes to sit on my stool at the counter to crunch on his toast.

I know. It's a long shot. And by long shot, I mean improbable. But at least it's something like a goal. Who knows? Now that the district has the Capitol's attention following the unprecedented double victory in the 74th Games, maybe there's a slight chance that the odds have improved?

Say I age out of the reaping pool and then have a life ahead of me. Then what? The piano's as good as anything, I guess. Though it's a bit hard to busk in the square with a piano or at the Hob, like some people do. So I'll have to come up with a way to generate income in a town where there are very few working pianos besides the one at the Justice Building and our home. I'll save thinking of that for when I know I'm not going to die.

"Do you secretly know how to fix eggs, by any chance?" Dad hazards, having demolished the toast.

I squint at him, nose wrinkling. "How brave are you feeling?" And does he mean in the shell or out of the shell?

Turns out he's not that brave. He finishes the coffee before I've had any. He looks a little sheepish when he realizes. Then he points at the bread clamp. "Is that the last of the bakery bread?"

"Yep." Then I add, "I'll pick up more today. Hanna left me a list of shopping to do so she won't have to go tomorrow when the Capitol staff descend. Er, I'm going to need some money."

"That would help," he replies.

"Off to the Justice Building?" I ask as he gets up from the counter. I need to break into his study later to return some newspapers before I'm caught with them.

"Yep," he echoes with only a little irony in his voice as he takes out his wallet and hands me a few bills. "And Madge," he drawls, "ask for receipts. I suspect people overcharge you."

My mouth forms an O. "Why would you think that?"

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. "It's a hunch."

I frown over this new idea while I give him the last pieces of toast to finish on his walk to the square. Later I'll pick up something for me when I stop by the bakery. Although, with my father's hint at alleged treachery, will it taste as good? Probably.

"Thanks for breakfast," he says as he goes for his coat.

"Sure."

He's reaching for the door with his coat partially zipped and his scarf dangling unwrapped around his neck.

"Don't forget your hat," I warn him. "It's cold."

And, well, he doesn't have the hair that he used to. Which I'm too tactful to point out.

Dad gives me a wry look. "Strategy, Madge." He taps his scalp just above his ear where we tend to get tension headaches. "I'll use the weather to ice my head before the headache can start."

"Is it that bad?"

Dad stares at nothing as he goes through some mental calculations. "Well, I've already had five voicemails from the Capitol before I got up this morning regarding the Harvest festivities." He purses his lips. "My fault for giving them the house extension."

Preparations for the Victory dinner will start first thing tomorrow in our home to be followed by the festival the day after that. And the daily demands of the district keep my father more than busy. Headaches indeed. Most of the arrangements for food had been made by the Capitol, but they have to manage the logistics of these multiple feasts when they're used to the convenience and opulence of the Capitol. They've already expressed dismay over a dearth of power outlets. Rightly, whoever's on the other end of these calls feels nervous about the rustic venue.

Dad rubs his forehead. "And I received another one to tell me that some in the district have begun their victory celebrations early. Or last night, rather. Complaints have been issued regarding drunken revelers." He shakes his head, opening the door. "There's no respect for noise ordinances anymore."

"Probably not. But then, what's the deterrent?" My father doesn't believe in harsh punishments and Cray's lazy. Unless the racket actually disturbs the Head Peacekeeper from his nightly…activities…he's not bound to lift a finger.

Dad stares at me like I've brandished a knife. "Deterrent?"

I tuck my hair behind my ear. "I'm supposed to write an opposing viewpoints paper this weekend on whether or not corporal punishment actually deters crime."

Dad glances at the ceiling and I know he's thinking of our mutual friend, Surveillance. "And what's your view?" he asks with a bit of starch in his tone.

I cross my arms as the cold from the open door penetrates the kitchen, filling the room with coppery smelling fresh air. "I'm going to argue both sides in as circular a manner as possible and then end with a non sequitur. I might fail the paper, but they won't be able to use the content against you when you run for reelection."

Or me, if they decide my opinions run contrary to the curriculum. Homework assignments like these help tag future dissidents. That's the theory, anyway. It's hard to prove. The people who try tend to disappear.

Dad chuckles, breaking the sudden tension in the room. "I see your strategy. Well, let me know if you change your mind about pursuing music. There might be enough in the district budget to make you a junior-junior clerk."

"Ugh."

Dad raises his hand, closing the door again. "You already know how to write like an official and it pays better than offering piano lessons. I'm only saying you should consider it in a few years."

If I'm given the pleasure of considering anything…I still have two reapings left. Maybe only six entries will bear my name next summer, but then Primrose Everdeen only had one. So the possibility of death continues to hang over every choice and aspiration. I guess that's why some people in the district think it's bad luck to talk about the future.

I've seen Dad's job, though, so there's little to consider, superstition or not. It would cause my hair to fall out too. Between the Capitol and Cray and Cole Binns, the actual junior clerk, I'd probably throw myself at the fence on a day when the power's on before I'd pursue a career in the Justice Building. Especially if it means being in a position that's junior even to Cole, who just started last year.

But I promise to consider it so that Dad can leave the house feeling a bit better about my future after hearing about my current fantasy for future disappointment. On reflection, I should have kept my mouth shut. Morphling's the only help we can count on from the Capitol.

"At least the Harvest Festival will be over in a few days," I offer as a possible ray of hope. In a few days it'll just be a forgotten headache.

My father gives me a wry smile. "I'd agree with you, dear, but after your friend's stunning announcement last night, and the rabble rousing it's already incited, I have a feeling this is just the beginning."

My stomach flips at the mention of the announcement. He means Katniss's sudden engagement projected to all of Panem. The reality hasn't settled on that one yet. When I try to consider what it means on a practical level, I stop breathing a little.

Has it really caused a commotion? I mean, I can think of one person who might want to smash windows following the announcement, but drunken celebrating? I have a feeling these revelers were just waiting for an excuse at the beginning of an extended holiday weekend.

"It'll be a long engagement, though. Don't you think?" I say. "You could have a few years before you have to think about any more banquets. Or maybe they'll get married in the Capitol instead of Twelve, like the President said."

"I suppose that will depend on Mrs. Everdeen," Dad eventually answers. "And I certainly hope her daughter hasn't started a new trend amongst her peers."

The expression on his worried face suggests that he's waiting for me to announce that I've actually been married for years and have a brood of secret children hidden somewhere. I feel an aggravating blush make an appearance. Nothing worries my father like a potential surprise. Like a mine explosion. So he tends to anticipate at a highly creative level.

"Don't be silly. Katniss and Peeta…well, it's a special circumstance," I stammer. "President Snow wouldn't really introduce a new law?"

Dad looks like his necktie feels too tight. "I believe the President meant to make a joke." He glances at the clock above the stove. "Oh, I need to run. I've asked Cray to meet with me to discuss these disturbances." He looks grim.

Really? Dragging old Cray into work on a Sunday is a poor political move. Dad's savvier than that. Things in the district must be in rough shape for him to consider it.

"How's that going to go?"

"If he bothers to show up," Dad sighs, "And it's a big if, then he'll either brush off the complaints or offer to whip the first unfortunate miscreant to fall under his feet to set an example. Then he'll call it a day."

"Whipping?" My heart leaps into my throat. Sunday is…poaching day. Miscreants tend to be readily available for the plucking.

Dad relents. "Don't look so worried. Cray hasn't chosen that option since before you were born. He may turn a blind eye on the district all together and decide that I'm the real irritant."

My hands ball into fists. "That doesn't make me feel better at all!" I say, making a face. "What will he do?"

Dad scratches behind his ear, while he thinks of what to say. "At best, he'll decide I'm butting into his business and he'll find some way to make my job suitably uncomfortable." He holds up his hand when I make a worried sound. "Nothing drastic. Usually he tells the facilities manager to cut the heat in my office."

And the facilities manager will listen to Cray over Dad because the Head Peacekeeper's the one with a gun. So, that's the pecking order in the Justice Building. And in the district.

"It's a pleasant excuse to work from home," he soothes when he notices my stricken expression.

I cringe. "What's the worst?"

Dad gives me a rueful smile. "I'll see you at supper." He clears his throat. "For leftovers."

He ducks outside.

"Dad," I scold at the closing door.

My father walks off without the hat. I watch through the kitchen window. Headache or no, he's going to regret his frozen ears. I know it. Especially if Cray decides to cut the heat to his office today. It's bitter out.

I know my father and Cray have a strangled working relationship. That's no secret. It's the only kind that Cray will allow. But my father has never shared the Head Peacekeeper's passive aggressive tendencies with me before. It's a new paradigm that makes my stomach cramp. Although, that could also be caused by giving my breakfast away.

Why confide this to me now? I can't tell if it's because he's more worried than cautious or if he thinks I'm finally old enough to handle the truth. I decide that I don't feel old enough. But it's too late to un-know it.

I never realized how much of a target my father made of himself to shield the district, absorbing Cray's ire. It's a harsh enough existence for many in District Twelve without a tyrannical Head Peacekeeper flagellating people into the dirt. The knowledge makes me feel sorry for my father. But also kind of proud. I guess we all do what we can.

Once he's disappeared beyond Officials Circle, I run up to my room and fish out the papers from under the bed. This is what I do. I read. Memorize. Pass it on. It takes a minute or two to file the papers away correctly in his office. Then I'm free to go in search of my own winter outerwear so that I can pick up the few odds and ends and pantry items to restock for our own household.

My mind drifts to last night. And the other paradigm shift that the announcement has created. I'm curious about the effect its had for…some people. It's Sunday, but it's still early yet, even this near the solstice. While the light's good, I feel certain that somewhere in the woods someone is having a very bad day. And I hope that this person won't be delivering anything to an equally cranky Cray. Should I warn him?

Something in my chest hitches at the sudden idea. Six months ago the option wouldn't have been possible. But now I've been on the other side of the fence.

I consider if I'm brave enough to enter the woods by myself. If I could find my way to the ledge Katniss showed me? Maybe. Now that I've gone a few times with her… But with the snow making everything unrecognizable? Maybe not.

Am I brave enough to seek out someone who despises me? Even to deliver a helpful message and satisfy my curiosity… I mean, to be helpful?

Emphatically, no.

What do I think I'd have to offer, anyway? Nothing. Some sympathy, maybe. But I think that would go over about as well as my dad offering Cray advice on how to handle disturbances in the district. Maybe this person can't turn off the heat to our house in retaliation, but he's certainly good at behaving in a frosty manner to anyone outside of his narrow circle.

And what are the odds that I'd probably only find a pack of hungry wild dogs for my efforts?

I choose my new boots to wear, the ones I bought to replace the old pair that I've nearly destroyed following Katniss around in the woods. As I lace them, I give up the idea that I'll be able to see this person today. At least he'll be at the Victory dinner. And then I'll be able to observe for myself just how Panem's most famous and newly minted cousin feels about Katniss's big news.

And why do I care? Because I'm a horrible, nosy gossip. I just live to be in other people's business. Not because I have a vested interest. Certainly not because I feel sorry for a person with the customer service skills of a cornered badger. That would be silly. Almost as silly as believing that I can master the piano to fix my mother's health.

Thank you for reading!

OCs and medea!verse character names:
"Alyss" or "Alyssum" Everdeen: Katniss's mother
Cletus Burdick: distinguished notary public
Cole Binns: An iteration of Geeky_DMHG_Fan's Cole Phillips, resident Gale!foil / Unfortunate Soul
Drunk Peacekeepers: Felix, Gaius, Niels / Piggy
"Gram" Mellark: Peeta's father
Hanna: the Undersees' housekeeper
"Henry" Undersee: Madge's father, district mayor
"Marigold" Undersee: Madge's mother
"Margaret" or "Maggie" Donner: Madge's maternal grandmother
Mrs. Stukley: sweet shop owner
Nero Ashfield: A secretary in Snow's council
Rufus Weidenbach: District Clerk (referenced in Dustland Fairytale)