"Katniss, sweetheart." His hands graze my waist as he shuffles behind me. I catch his eye in the mirror as I fret over my messy braid. "Relax," he says, his tone as light as his touch. His arms curl around me, pulling me back against him.
The tension in my shoulders diffuses, tightly wound muscles slowly unraveling, as I lean back into him. My feet hurt, my stomach is queasy, and I am more bloated than a pregnant cow. To top it off, I cannot get my hair to cooperate to save my life this evening. "I am trying," I say through gritted teeth.
He cannot suppress a laugh. I yearn to step back and dig my heel into his toes and vanish that smile from his face. His thinks himself a master of stealth, but I don't miss the way his hands cup my stomach. I have been adamant that I do not want to go to the local clinic for regular checkups, but that doesn't stop him from fantasizing. As soon as he knew for sure, a metamorphosis shifted within him. That last little speck of darkness that clung to the corner of his soul was purged by a brilliant light of happiness and excitement.
Peeta was born to be a father. I still don't think I'm cut out for this, but I suppose it's too late to change my mind now. I wouldn't want to, though recent conversations on what to expect during pregnancy with my mother have almost convinced me otherwise. From what I've gathered from her advice, my aches and pain will only worsen. A wonderful prospect to look forward to. I'm already having to fight Peeta arrow and knife to convince him I'm still perfectly fit to hunt in the woods. I'm not even showing yet, though he swears he feels the baby kicking. I don't have the heart to tell him my mother says it's likely too soon, that's the sensation he feels is nothing but gas rumbling through my intestines.
"You look great." He kisses my neck, his lips pressing hard and firm as if reclaiming property. Then he stoops down to rest his chin on my shoulder, looking into the mirror I've been staring at for at least a quarter of an hour.
"You're getting better and better at lying," I remark dryly. With a grunt of frustration, I rake my fingers through the braid to untangle the weave. Running my fingers through my hair to trying to smooth over the lumps, I try again.
"You want a hand?" he asks.
I let him try to braid my hair once. I will never make that mistake again. But I do not want to carelessly toss his offer out the door. I make an offer to be as polite to him as possible these days, paying forward for the days where my hormones will rage like a bull inside me. "If you don't mind finding my shoes, I would greatly appreciate it."
With a butterfly kiss to my shoulder, left bare by the flimsy straps of the blouse I'm wearing, he sets off on his task. By the time he retrieves them and sets them on the floor by my feet, I've given up on the braid. No longer caring about its appearance, I tie it off with the ribbon looped between my pinkie and ring finger.
"Now, you recall we are just eating at Haymitch's right?" he asks. As he nimbly unbuttons his shirt and strips it off, I take the opportunity to study his profile as he stands in front of the dresser and rummages around for a clean one. A bit like the coffee calling the kettle black, but I say nothing. Instead, I admire the muscles in his shoulders as they flex. Too soon he drapes them in cotton. Though he no longer has to lug around the massive bags of flour in the bakery, he has done well to keep in shape. I note his physique with a bit of sadness, realizing I haven't paid much attention lately. Everything about us the last few weeks has been focused on the baby instead of us as two human beings on our own. I can only imagine what the rest of my life will be like.
My thoughts make me feel selfish, so I turn them away. "Haymitch said it was a special occasion," I remind him, explaining my desire to be at least somewhat presentable for our weekly dinner tonight.
Peeta tilts his head up from where he is bent over, tying his shoes. "Actually, I think we're the ones who mentioned we had special news to share tonight."
"Well, okay, but it's still special. And you misbuttoned your shirt," I tell him. He hasn't, but I smirk at my small victory when he stands up and studies his shirt quizzically for a beat.
"One of us is eventually going to have to start acting like an adult before the baby is born."
"Doesn't have to be me," I remind him. "And it certainly doesn't have to be today."
"You ready?" He grabs his usual tie from where is hangs off the side of his nightstand and ropes it around his neck. Knowing he's eventually going to ask, I save him the step. Crossing the room to stand before him, each step an imagined mini earthquake beneath my growing girth, I take the tie from his hands and work deftly to tie it. I can't help but smile as my fingers work the silk material around. It's the tie I used to blindfold him the night I told him I was ready to try. He swears the baby was conceived that very night.
Tightening the tie, I pull it down to make sure it hangs straight. With my hands against his chest, his heartbeat pulses beneath my palms. So strong, so secure. Just feeling it makes me feel safe, helps wipe away some of the worry that plagues me constantly now.
We come together without a word. The desire is second nature, the movement a learned motion. His kiss is soft, gentle, but it promises so much more. As he pulls away, he runs his thumb along the bottom of my lower lip to wipe away the slightly smeared lip balm I'm wearing. "I love you." He says it with a reverence that still makes my heart skip a beat all these years later.
"Back at you, Boy with the Bread." Catching his hand, I kiss the soft skin between his thumb and index finger.
"We'd better head next door. You know how he gets when we're late."
I hadn't thought it possible, but getting older has only made Haymitch more cantankerous. With a groan at the thought, I nod in agreement. Sliding my feet into my shoes which feel tighter with each passing day, I follow Peeta out into the hallway. With a glance back into the bedroom to flick off the lights, I marvel at how far we've come since I first moved into this room. Who would have thought.
Haymitch is waiting at the door. As soon as Peeta knocks, the door bursts forward on its hinges, startling both of us. "Dammit," I mutter, my hand jumping to my chest to keep my heart from exploding out. "You can't do that to people."
"I can do whatever I please, Sweetheart." All this time, and I can't seem to shake off his wonderful term of endearment. "Now come on, dinner is getting cold."
"Haymitch, we are," I glance at the clock on the wall as we pass into the living room, "three minutes late. Three."
He gets immeasurably grouchy when Effie has to leave town on business. As they've grown closer, she's managed to scrape away the harsher parts of his personality while she's with him. Unfortunately, without her near to keep him in check, his moods double in severity.
"Late is the key word you were meaning to focus on," he tells me instead as we follow the routine and make our way into the dining room. Though he no longer has Hazelle to lean on for cleanliness, Effie has shown an unpredictable affinity to housework, surprising all of us, Haymitch most of all. I think it's the only thing about her he really can't stand. He doesn't know what to do without a mess around him.
"So what's the big surprise?" he asks, wasting no time on small talk as Peeta slides my chair out for me and I sit down. Haymitch continues on past the kitchen bar to grab the food sitting on the kitchen island.
Peeta scoots my chair in to the table for me. His hands remain on the chair back, and I know he's waiting to let me decide if I want to tell Haymitch yet or not. It's been a spot of disagreement between us, though I'm honestly not sure why. I'm not ready to tell Haymitch yet, but I can't explain to Peeta why when he asks. It was hard enough to tell my mother, and I think I want to keep it close for now. Just in case. Things happen with pregnancies, especially this early on. I don't want to count my egg before it hatches.
Peeta, of course, wants to shout the news from the roof of the bakery and to put an advert in the news to let all of Panem know. I have never seen him so excited about anything in my entire life, and that includes the week long art benefit he got to host a few years back.
"You can tell him," I say as I try to mentally prepare.
"Tell me what?" Haymitch asks, returning to plop a plate down on the table in front of me. He sets the other one on the spot to my left, so Peeta drops into the chair on that side as he lets his arm linger across the back of my chair.
"You want to?" Peeta asks me.
I would rather drink rubbing alcohol. I can already guess the rude remarks we're going to have to endure tonight as we gift Haymitch with this entire new realm to goad me with. "Absolutely not," I say. Swiping the forest green cloth napkin from the table, another Effie touch, I set it in my lap to hide my fidgeting fingers.
"Okay." Peeta clears his throat and waits while Haymitch goes back to the kitchen for the last plate. When he returns and sits down across from us, Peeta spills the news. "Katniss is pregnant."
"With what?" Haymitch asks.
"I told you," I snap at Peeta out of the side of my mouth. Picking up my fork, I stab it sharply into my pork chop.
Silence falls over the table for a moment. The only sound is the scraping of utensils against plates. Then Haymitch drops his fork onto his plate and stares straight ahead at us. "You aren't joking?"
"Afraid not," I mumble, shoving the pork chop into my mouth to give it something to do other than talk.
"Well, I'll be damned." He scratches the top of his balding head, leaning back in his chair. Now he can't stop staring at us. The green beans and glazed pork chop on his plate are long forgotten. His gaze bores a hole in my head, directly between my eyes. "Does she know?" Haymitch asks, directing his question towards Peeta.
"Unfortunately yes, it seems so," Peeta says, as if confessing to an embarrassing secret. His right hand finds my left, his fingers sliding into mine to give my hand a squeeze.
Haymitch's hand moves to rub the stubble on his chin. My nerves fray under his unwavering gaze. "Well, there you have it, Sweetheart."
"Have what?" I could not have guessed a reaction anywhere close to what I'm experiencing now.
"You did it."
I choke on the bite of beans in my mouth. It goes down with a struggle, fighting its path to my esophagus. "Not by myself," I say, wholly embarrassed now.
"Pah." Haymitch waves off my comment. "Not what I meant, but interesting to see where your mind went. Still a teenager at heart, I see."
"I think you've started to go senile, old man," I tell him blatantly.
"Nawh," he says, though even he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "I just meant you finally deserve him."
Oh. Well. My head drops toward my plate, my cheeks gathering heat. It is a question I haven't asked him in ages, a benchmark I guess I'd kind of given up on ages ago. Hearing Haymitch say those words, without an ounce of irony to them, leaves me speechless. I'm not entirely sure, since we've known each other for so long now, but I believe it's the nicest thing he's ever said to me.