A/N: Many thanks to KenoshaChick for all the shameless plugging and Fanfic Picking (a la Muttations Podcast). And also my thanks to Ceylon205 for beta.
Christmas Cheers II: Baby, It's Cold Outside
"You could melt her heart right down to butter, if you'd only turn on the heat!" Mamie, Holiday Inn
"Sure, don't mind what happens to your family. At a time like this you think about the chickens." Mrs. Anna Smith, Meet Me in St. Louis
The cold spot on his back wakes Rory up from a deep winter sleep. He lies on his side and shivers in the frigid darkness before pulling the eiderdown up to where the scratchy stubble grows on his neck. He waits in a sleepy stupor for the warmth to soak into his bones. But something more than just the warmth seems to be missing.
A sneaking suspicion germinates in the gurgley pit of his stomach. It grows until it tickles his ribs and makes his nose itch.
Rory's raspy voice scratches his ears like sandpaper. "Prim?"
He reaches out behind him, blindly feeling the sheets with his hand. Nothing.
Bogdammit.
Rory wakes up in inches then groans like a groggy bear. He rolls around in the mattress until he's facing one way and his boxers are all twisted around his hips, trying to stay where they were before he woke up. Where his wife usually lies curled up against his back, a long shadowy indent in the feather mattress impresses upon him one thing: Prim has gone missing.
Again.
Rory groans a second time and stubbornly refuses to get up. Not this time. Nuh uh.
He knows the routine of Prim's midnight shenanigans now. Prim's forgotten a task she meant to start or finish. Then she can't sleep until she realizes what it is and takes care of it. Well, he's not going to find her and stay up all night helping her figure it out. A young guy like him needs sleep to recuperate. He has to do farmy things in the morning, which requires all his strength and concentration so he doesn't lose a hand chopping wood or feed rat poison to the chickens.
And with that Rory's ready to fall back to sleep. He lets out a few preliminary snores for emphasis.
Until he starts imagining what Prim might have gotten up to. Maybe a midnight mission of mercy to read stories to her niece and nephew again – an occurrence that nearly gave Peeta a heart attack when he went to check out the giggling in the nursery. Or maybe Prim remembered that she's forgotten to put out the freshly seeded pinecones for the birds, like she did a few weeks ago and now she's lost in the snowy woods filled with hungry beasts waiting to gobble her up.
Either way, Prim's probably going to freeze to death, even if she's just cleaning imaginary spots off the counter in the kitchen. Rory can hear the wind rattling the windows and the chilling bite of it in the draughts coming through. He'd hate to announce at Christmas dinner tomorrow that Prim turned into a Primcicle while on his watch. Katniss would turn him into a Rorycabob and feed him to crotchety old Buttercup.
Rory reflects that he's only twenty-one. Too young to die. Too handsome for maiming.
And well, he really likes Prim. He'd like to keep her for a few more decades. So he rolls out of bed. His toes sink into the braided rug covering the floorboards. Their bedroom is sparsely decorated: white walls, their wedding portrait that Peeta painted, an old dresser and nightstand set that Gale helped him re-stain and finish, the rugs Prim made herself, and some doodles from their scads of nieces and nephews that Prim couldn't fit on the convalescing icebox in the kitchen. Rory reaches for the lamp on the nightstand with the frilly white shade that Prim insisted they buy instead of the sans-frill shade he preferred. He switches on the light, making sure to purposefully avoid glancing at the clock.
Rory looks around, noticing that Prim's nightgown and slippers aren't on the floor or hanging over the side of the bed, which means she's still wearing them. Hopefully, she just got herself a cup of tea in the kitchen or decided to dust the mantelpiece over the fireplace in the living room. Or, hey, maybe she's reading that anthology of Christmas stories he brought her from the library. No big deal. But just in case, he throws on a pair of flannel trousers and the crumpled sweater he tossed over the footboard before getting into bed a few hours earlier.
The floorboards creak as Rory shambles down the hallway into the cold, dark, empty kitchen and he gives the wood-burning stove a considering glance. He opens the stove door; the lingering coals blink sleepily at him from the banked fire. Rory can still smell the cinders, but whatever heat is left doesn't make a dent in the bitter December night. He throws in kindling from the box next to the stove and stokes the cinders until they glow red and orange. He adds twisted pieces of newsprint to help the new chunk of wood catch.
Rory trudges back toward the bedroom, taking care to peek into the den first.
"Prim?" He looks around at the empty armchairs, the Christmas tree with a few gifts underneath, and the dark fireplace.
Nobody's present except old Buttercup, the only cat allowed inside. He gives Rory the stink eye from his place on the couch. Rory backs out of the living room slowly.
The house only has four rooms in it besides the john. He checks the guest room, but the doorway's wide open and empty. As Rory feared, Prim isn't in the house. Back in their bedroom, Rory yawns and scratches that hard to reach place on his back. He'd like nothing better than to slip back under the covers, but it's not the same when he's alone. And again, there's the problem of the Primcicle. So he throws on two pairs of socks on his feet and girds himself for outside. He has an idea about where Prim might be. Of course it wouldn't be a sensible place. An easy to reach place. A warm place.
Nope. Not with his wife. The Everdeen women don't come with an 'easy' button. Rory heads back to the kitchen and leans over the sink to look out the frost-laced window facing the goat shed and Prim's greenhouse. At first, he sees a young man with tousled, black hair; a scruffy, triangular jawline; and drowsy, hooded eyes. He squinches his eyes past the handsome devil in the window to see the shed across the dooryard. Sure enough, soft yellow lantern light leaves buttery squares on the newly fallen snow through the shed windows. She's gone for a midnight visit to the barn animals.
Rory cringes. These shenanigans will be the death of them both. The shed is not a fit place for humans on a winter night. It's draughty and dusty and good enough for animals, but not for Prim. So first things first, Rory fills the dented kettle with water from the tap, setting it on the stove to boil, and then he searches for a flask and the teapot. He sets his items down on the counter and heads out to the mudroom to further investigate the situation. Prim's fleece-lined winter boots lie flopped over one another on the floor. Typical. Then he checks the front closet. Sure enough, there's her wool coat hanging there with a scarf and mittens stuffed into the pockets. She might as well be naked out there.
Although, if she was naked, he would forget the tea and hurry up just a little more.
Rory throws on his muck jacket from the back of the closet and winds a wool scarf in double loops around his neck, gathering up her winter things and throwing them on the counter next to the flask in time for the kettle to whistle. He steeps a strong winter tea blend that will pepper up his frozen bride in the time it takes to entice her back into bed.
Flask and winter gear in hand, Rory steps out of the farmhouse and instantly regrets his valiant efforts. It's not a fit night for man or beast. Silver stars stud the black velvet sky over the frozen world. In the distance, the wind drives snow across his stubble fields in swirling drifts, moaning through the trees in the dooryard. All his sensitive bits try to crawl inward as far from the cold as possible until he's not sure he'll recover. So much for posterity. Still, for Prim's sake he clenches his teeth like a man against the brisk winter wind and tramps through the frozen path to the shed. The sound of snow crunching under his boots chides him for stalking around his farm at night rather than sleeping in his nice warm bed as he ought.
"At least it's beautiful to look at," he mutters to himself, rousing some shriveled, sleepy pride in his farm.
The Hawthornes and Everdeens moved to a new settlement north of District Thirteen, following Rory's brother Gale and his then new wife, Madge. Rory had been about fourteen at the time. He apprenticed for most of his teen years with a man called Hogget from former District 11, who had just been awarded his first share of land by the new Panem government. Rory apprenticed then worked as a hired hand for Farmer Hogget until he had the money and the know-how to start this little farm he calls Meadowlark Acres. He spent the winters between harvests and plantings working with Gale as a ranger until he could build the little clapboard house. That's when Rory felt he had the right to ask Prim to come live with him forever. He proposed just after the harvest festival last year when he'd reaped the largest bumper crop to date and managed to sell the lot for a good price. When he showed her the house and told her it belonged to both of them, Prim laughed and cried at the same time in that way that always makes him feel alarmed and gratified all mixed. She said yes, which was the best part. They were married in the spring.
Rory's taken to farming like a fish in a swimming pool. Not his natural environment, but its worked just as well. It's just a little hobby farm. You could barely call it a subsistence living. At least for now. Rory has plans for buying more land in the next five years and turning this place into something more profitable than it already is. Then he can hire more farmhands besides Vick, whose heart is really into the music he writes and not in driving the hay baler.
Mostly they just grow vegetables and hay. Pumpkins, squash, tomatoes, corn, soy beans, onions, and potatoes. Prim has her herb beds to keep her busy when she isn't working with her mother at the apothecary in the town ten miles away. Rory doesn't keep much livestock, just some goats and chickens and all the kittens Prim can find in the hedgerows. She can't bear the thought of slaughtering pigs or cows. In fact, the only meat they do get comes from Katniss or the butcher who trades him for fresh eggs, vegetables and Prim's remedies. It took Rory forever to get Katniss to accept payment for the wild game of rabbits, fish, turkey and anything else she brings in. It also took her forever to accept that Rory could take care of her little sister. Luckily, he had Prim's brother-in-law, Peeta, on his side, and Gale's bull-headedness as an example.
And now he has to keep his wife from catching pneumonia.
The white side door of the red shed stands open a crack. Light filters out onto the stone step and the snow beyond it. Before going inside, Rory takes a look at the old mercury thermometer nailed by the side of the door. He shivers and hopes it's broken and the mercury's running out instead of the alternative which means it's more than just cold, it's negative warmth.
Rory pushes through the doorway. His senses fill with the musty smells of dirt, hay and goat, which hang in the air mingling with the sharp scent he can only describe as snow or cold. He shuts the door firmly behind him and treads down the spacious wooden aisle, one side lined with wooden animal stalls (mostly used for storage) and the other side filled with rakes and shovels, a wheelbarrow, bags of feed, and hay stacked neatly all the way up to the ceiling. Several pairs of shiny cat eyes wink lazily at him from the dark, cobwebby rafters overhead. This morning, Prim came out right after breakfast to pound nails into the wooden beam over the stalls, scattering the cats and leaving an emerald green bunch of mistletoe hanging over each stall. That's her way of making the shed more festive for the animals. He worried about the poisonous berries, but Prim educated him. Goats can eat just about anything, even arsenic.
He's tempted to make a scientific experiment out of it, especially when he spots his wife.
Rory finds Prim sitting merrily inside the goat family's stall, her back braced up against the wooden slats and goats flanking her right side. Prim's head snaps up when he slides the door open and a happy, rosy smile brightens her face. Rory leans against the doorpost, momentarily stunned as he takes in the sight in front of him. She looks like a rustic angel presiding over the manger on Christmas morning, causing his breath to catch. He never could disguise his adoration of Prim.
"You're awake," she says brightly, like he's made her night just by joining the party. It's probably not far from the truth.
Rory clears his throat. "Er, I came looking for you. Thought you might be cold."
"Oh." Prim's light eyelashes flutter as if she's considering the temperature for the first time. She huddles under a linen shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders, sitting in a soft pile of fresh hay she must have put down in the goat stall. Prim looks comfortable enough, but she's only wearing her nightgown, the shawl and slippers, he notes with exasperation.
"I didn't notice the cold very much," she deprecates, but her knees betray her by knocking together.
Rory stares down at his tiny, shivery slip of a wife, despairing of her. It's true she'd be so absorbed by the goats that she wouldn't notice the frost biting her nose and ears and causing her bones to rattle. Katniss was right about one thing, Prim will always need someone to look after her because she spends so much time caring for everyone else that she forgets about her own well-being. The shed is not a fit place for a human being in this weather. He's told her time and again that animals have built in winter coats, unlike people, and warmer internal temperatures. But she insists on looking in on them like they're her own children.
"Prim, what are you doing out here?" he asks, though he knows full well.
Prim sees his arms laden with her winter gear and smiles ruefully. "I brought Princess Eugenia and her kids their Christmas dinner," she tells him like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I only planned to stay for a few minutes, but then we were having so much fun, I forgot."
Fun? Rory shakes his head. More like the goats taking advantage of his kind wife's generosity. Geez, the little crooks. Rory wonders what the old Goat Man from Twelve would have thought of the way Prim coddles the animals.
Princess Eugenia, the nanny goat, and her twins, Duchess and Governor, are wrapped in woolen blankets Prim brought from their own linen closet, greedily eating mash from steaming earthenware bowls while Prim shivers on the ground next to them. Her lips have turned blue, he notices with silent alarm. Rory squelches the urge to lecture the goats for not noticing too; he realizes that would be silly.
"They've almost finished," says Prim. As if to corroborate this, Duchess rests her gray muzzle on Prim's knee and bleats sleepily at Rory. He takes that as an invitation to step further into the stall.
"Drink this," he orders, putting the flask of tea into the two ice blocks Prim calls hands. She can hardly bend her fingers. Fortunately, holding the hot flask has the added effect of warming them. He makes Prim put on her coat and scarf and gloves after she's gotten a few sips in. He removes her slippers and warms her toes between his hands. She giggles the whole time, begging him to stop tickling her and trying to free her feet. They disturb the feeding goats. Princess Eugenia gives them a disapproving bleat. He pretends not to understand Prim's protests until he's satisfied that the blood is circulating in her feet again. Then he slips the boots on her feet for her and ties them tightly.
"Keep sipping that tea," Rory orders, getting up.
"Where are you going?" Prim asks breathlessly from all the tickling.
"To put some logs in the stove," he says frankly, "before you freeze to death."
Prim blushes. "I would've lit the stove, but I didn't want to burn down the shed."
"Huh." Rory doesn't mean to be grouchy with her. He just wishes that she'd consider herself more often. If anyone deserves to be a little more self-absorbed, it's his Prim. He feeds wood from the pile along the wall into the old potbelly stove in the corner of the shed and nurses the flames till the wood's cracking and snapping with warmth, Rory muses that he'd rather she burned the shed to ashes than come down with hypothermia herself. The heat from the stove penetrates the cold shed slowly, but it's enough warmth to make the frozen moisture in his nose thaw out. Rory wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve while Prim isn't looking.
Across the aisle, Rory notices Henny Penny, Minerva Louise, Poulette, and Little Red giving him the stink eye from their roost for waking them up. Chicken censure is the worst.
"Well, that should help," he tells her when he returns to the stall, wiping his sooty hands on his trousers. Princess Eugenia has finished her mash and settled into the farthest corner of the box, watching Rory cautiously through her black, beady eyes. He settles down on the clean straw next to Prim and prepares himself for a long night.
"Thank you, Rory," Prim says meekly, pressing a surprisingly warm kiss against his chilled cheek. "You're sweet."
"Er. Forget it," he replies blushingly.
"I won't," she promises, reaching for his hand with her gloved one. "I remember all the nice things you do for me." That makes Rory blush more. Being on this side of gratitude always embarrasses him a little.
"Well, it's my job, Prim," he says humbly.
Prim scoots closer to him, dislodging the little goats leaning against her and rests her head on Rory's shoulder. He rests his head on hers, sneaking a whiff of her golden, gardenia-scented hair. It's not ruined too much by the goat smells.
"You were sleeping so soundly when I got up. I felt sure I didn't wake you. Did you have a bad dream?" she asks.
Rory thinks about it. No, something less tangible than a dream woke him. "I could just tell that you were gone and couldn't sleep."
Prim gently squeezes his arm. "Really?"
"Yep." Rory smiles against her hair. "I guess I got used to you being there next to me. You're a vast improvement after sharing a mattress with Vick for years."
Prim sighs happily, then says, "I like everyone I've ever slept with."
Rory's eyes bug out of his head. "Er. What?" As far as he knew, he was the only she'd ever been with. "Who else?" he demands, shifting uncomfortably on the floor.
Unperturbed, Prim answers, "Well, Katniss and my mother and Buttercup." She assures him, "But I like you best."
Oh. That's all she meant. He certainly hopes he's her favorite, then. Her word choice nearly gave him a stroke. A man's allowed to feel proprietary where his wife is concerned. He might have a few words with Buttercup.
While Rory and Prim relax against one another, the kids lick up the last drops of mash out of the bowls. Governor shakes off the woolen blanket Prim tucked around him and approaches Rory on wobbly legs, prodding around his coat pockets and trousers with his black and white nose.
"Looking for handouts? You'll spoil your breakfast tomorrow," Rory chides. But he still produces some grain that he got from the dispenser nailed to the wooden post outside the stall. The baby goat snuffles up all the grain left in Rory's pocket with his wet, stubbly lips until it's gone. Then he flops down next to Rory, waiting for his ears to be scratched. Prim's got the goats confusing themselves for pet puppies. He pats Governor's fat belly and regrets all that grain and hot mash going to waste. These goats will live to see old age, and when they die, it will only be because Prim can't do anything about that even with all her herb lore. Animals couldn't ask for a safer haven than Meadowlark Acres, Rory thinks ruefully. Sure, Prim makes cheeses from Princess Eugenia's milk (when she doesn't have kids to feed), and the rest of the milk can be sold to mothers with sickly children. But Rory eyes Governor's side and sees a few good mutton dinners in the making. The goat, sensing the danger, trots away from Rory and clambers clumsily over the mash bowls lying on the ground. Governor bleats at Prim until she tucks him safely under her other arm. Ingrate.
The bowls remind Rory of something he meant to ask. "Why are we out here giving the goats a midnight snack?" he says petulantly. The animals should have bedded down for the night, and so should the humans.
Prim sighs sadly and Duchess, the baby girl goat, nuzzles her shoulder, then tries nibbling Prim's hair. She gently extricates it from Duchess's mouth. "I couldn't sleep thinking about how cold all the poor animals must be in this shed," she answers, scratching Duchess's head.
"Huh." Know what else is cold? The bed. Rory's toes. Penguins in Antarctica. "You're going to freeze to death yourself. Come back to bed," he urges. "The animals will be fine now that the stove's lit."
Prim bites her lip, which are a healthy, rosy red now. "It's more than that, Rory."
"More than what?"
Prim's eyes shine soulfully in the lantern light as she gazes up at him. Rory has always been a sucker for her eyes and her enthusiasm. He tries to forget that fact in light of the Siberian weather conditions. "It's Christmas Eve," she murmurs.
"Not for much longer," he points out doggedly. "So?"
"Well," she says gently, "we spent the evening with your family and tomorrow we'll have Christmas with Katniss and Peeta, my mother and the kids. We won't get to spend time with our own little family here on the farm."
Rory gapes. Kids in school had called him some pretty rude things back in the day, but never had anyone said that his family was a bunch of barn animals. He certainly didn't expect it from Prim.
Princess Eugenia's beady eyes meet Rory's surprised grey ones across the stall. She bleats loudly and Rory agrees. Prim has gone a little far there.
"What does that have to do with freezing our knickers off?" he whines.
Prim smiles up at him. "Christmas is a time we spend with everyone we love, Rory. And we love Princess Eugenia and her kids and they love us." She gives Governor and Duchess each a hug and a kiss on their noses for emphasis. Governor protests against affection and flees to his mother, kicking up hay and dust. Then he tries to play it cool by bleating for milk.
"I think they love to eat us out of house and home," Rory grumbles, partially because it's true and partially because he's got to kiss Prim's goat-y, Buttercup-y lips.
Prim giggles. "You sound like Gale," she says fondly. Fair enough. She's known Gale almost as long as Katniss has – which is longer than she's known Rory. And Gale did spend half the Christmas meal regaling them all with his manifesto against the high price of groceries and cloth diapers while Madge rolled her eyes behind his back. If he had his way, they'd all go back to the bartering system and forget this newfangled currency issued by the Bank of New Panem.
"Gale ended up with four kids after only three tries, so he's bound to be a little annoyed about the amount of food—" he's interrupted by a sneezing fit from the hay and dust that Governor kicked up on the way to bully some milk from his mother.
"Bless you!" Prim cries after a string of vehement sneezes.
"Th-th-th – achoo-ee!" Rory groans. Prim produces a handkerchief from the inside pocket of her winter coat and hands it to him. "Thanks," he mumbles.
Prim listens to him blow his nose, looking regretful. "Rory, you must be catching a cold out here," she murmurs, worry darkening her eyes to a sapphire blue as the sneezing fit continues afresh.
"It's just the dust—" He starts to correct her, but a lightbulb flashes somewhere in the dark recesses of his brain. He sniffles and blows his nose again. "Er, yeah. I might be coming down with something."
"Let's get you inside," Prim coos. "Poor thing."
Rory knuckles his eyes under the pretext that they have started to water. If he'd known that a few well-timed sneezes were all it would take to get Prim inside where it's warm, then he would have pretended to sneeze as soon as he stepped into the shed. Of course it would take someone else's health as an excuse to drag her away from the animals and out of the cold. He gets to his feet almost cheerfully and pulls Prim up beside him.
They take turns brushing hay off of each other's backs and legs. Rory pulls her toward the stall door, feeling so relieved that his mission is accomplished that in a burst of enthusiasm he wishes the family of goats a merry Christmas.
Princess Eugenia bleats at them, so he even turns around and waves. But she keeps bleating until Prim pays attention. "What is it, girl?" she asks.
Meeeeeh. Princess Eugenia shakes her head up and down. Prim glances up bemusedly then she giggles into her hand.
"What?" Rory asks, hoping it won't take up any more time.
Prim points to the beam. "Look up, Rory. Princess Eugenia caught us."
Rory looks up at the beams overhead and spots the mistletoe Prim put there this morning. He blushes.
"Er."
"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she says playfully.
Rory's eyebrows jump into his hairline. "In front of the goats?" he croaks.
Prim beams at him without a care in the world. Rory glances at her pink bowtie lips and the point of her red nose and the thick sweep of lashes framing her clear, blue eyes. Something drops in his stomach. He reminds himself that this is his barn and his wife, and bogdammit, he can kiss her without embarrassment. Even if the goats and chickens are watching, and more than likely judging his performance. Especially Poulette.
Rory sets his shoulders with determination. He picks a forgotten piece of straw out of Prim's hair, remembering when she used to be taller than him by three fingers, and when he finally caught up to her, and then when he skyrocketed upward till he almost matched Gale in height. Even balancing on the balls of her feet like a little robin hopping from worm to worm, Prim's still a good six or seven fingers shorter.
Rory bends over her till their noses almost touch. "Well. Merry Christmas, Primrose." He kisses her cold cheek, teasing a trail across her skin until he finds her smiling lips. She presses them against his, bunching her mittened fingers in his hair. They warm him all over like warm Christmas cookies and cider, his favorites, until he forgets about the goats and Henny Penny, Minerva Louise, Poulette and Little Red. Prim tastes like the spicy holiday tea he brought her and something sweet that's distinctly Prim. His shaking hands slip inside her coat, gently bunching the fabric of her nightgown where he holds her waist close to his own. Encouraged for posterity's sake, he kisses her for each and every bunch of mistletoe across the center beam. Prim giggles and blushes and smiles just like the first time they kissed.
"Merry Christmas, Rory," she says breathlessly when all the mistletoe are accounted for. And this time she leads him out of the shed. The kisses keep them warm all the way down the frozen path, into the house, into bed, and under the covers.
In the east, the sky turns a soft dove gray as the sun rises on Christmas morning.
The End
Merry Christmas! May your holidays be filled with friends and family, in whatever shape and size and texture they come in. ~ MS
…
For the morbidly curious about medea!verse HG 2nd Generation:
Katniss/Peeta: Elodie and Jack (Flapjack)
Gale/Madge: Rowan, Daisy, and twins Rhys & Corin
Rory/Prim: Buttercup, five dozen kittens, four chickens, twenty-five chicks, a rooster, three goats, a pond full of frogs, a border collie named Flaubert…human children undecided.