Chapter Text
It was too quiet. The kind of quiet that scratched at Haymitch’s nerves, made his skin crawl. He hated Capitol quiet. It was artificial, filtered through layers of technology and luxury - like it was trying to convince you the world outside wasn’t burning.
The tributes were asleep, finally, though it had taken some effort. The boy had cried in the shower for half an hour, thinking no one could hear him over the water. The girl hadn’t said a single word since they arrived. Not one. Just stared at the floor, like looking up might hurt.
Haymitch sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, a glass of water in his hand. Water. Fucking water. He’d promised her. Promised them. No booze for the month. It had seemed manageable when it was just ink and paper, when he was back in Twelve and the baby was still an abstract thought - a letter scrawled in Effie’s tidy, curling script: I’m pregnant.
He’d been confused, at first - why was she telling him? - but she’d gone on to explain that it - she - was his. Was theirs. He hadn’t understood how that could be possible, but then he remembered. That one night during the games last year, when they were both drunk beyond belief, and they’d shed their clothes and hopped into bed together.
And now they were here.
He stared at the water like it had personally insulted him.
Effie was in her bedroom, taking off her makeup, probably. She always did that before bed during the Games. She’d never say it, not out loud, but she didn’t like sleeping with the paint still on her face. He once teased her about it, a few years back. She’d snapped that her skin needed to breathe. He’d rolled his eyes.
The apartment door buzzed.
Haymitch frowned and glanced toward the hall.
Effie emerged a second later in her robe - Capitol plush, lilac, covered in gold embroidery—and moved quickly to the door. She didn’t say anything, just looked through the peephole, unlocked it, opened it -
And there was her friend, Laurenta or Lorala or whatever her name was, standing there with a blanket-wrapped bundle cradled against her chest.
Haymitch’s heart stopped.
It was her.
Effie took the baby carefully, murmuring soft thanks. Her voice dropped to a whisper, all honey and hush. The friend gave her a small smile, a supportive squeeze on the shoulder, and then left without even glancing inside.
Effie turned, holding her daughter, their daughter, and stepped back inside.
She hadn’t told him it’d be tonight.
Her arms curled instinctively around the infant, soft fabric clutched to her chest, head nestled under her chin. The baby made a small, whimpering noise - almost like a hiccup - and Effie’s body moved in a gentle rock, automatic, like she’d done it a hundred times.
She probably had.
Haymitch stood up, slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.
Strawberry blonde. That was the first thing that hit him. Her hair was peeking out from the wrap - peachy and soft, like something sun-kissed. He never knew that was Effie’s real hair color. She never let him see her without a wig, and he hadn’t thought to ask. But there it was, on the baby. No Capitol dye or style. Just real. Her.
Effie shifted on her feet and looked up at him. Her expression was unreadable. Not wary exactly, but guarded. Like this was the part she’d been dreading. Like it might break something to let him close.
“She just ate,” she said quietly. “So she’ll sleep a while.”
“Yeah?” His voice cracked. He hadn’t expected it to crack. “She, uh. She doesn’t look much like me.”
Effie tilted her head. “She does.”
Haymitch stepped closer. Careful. Like the floor might collapse beneath him. “What’s her name?”
Effie hesitated. Then, softly: “Wren.”
He blinked. “Like the bird?”
“Mm-hmm. Small. Sharp. Loud.”
A smile pulled at his mouth. “So… definitely yours, then.”
Effie gave a breath of a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“She’s beautiful,” he said. And then, “Can I…?”
Effie froze for a heartbeat. Then, gently, she shifted the baby, held her out. Not like she was handing him a parcel—like she was letting him touch something sacred.
Haymitch took her like she might shatter.
God. She was tiny. The size of his forearm. Warm and real and breathing. She squirmed a little, her nose wrinkling, a small squeaky sound escaping her.
He rocked her instinctively.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing fine,” Effie said.
He looked at her. “I wasn’t there.”
“I know.”
“I should’ve been there.”
Effie’s hands were clasped in front of her. Her face unreadable again. “There wasn’t a way. We talked about this.”
“I know, I just -” He looked down at Wren again. “It’s real now.”
She nodded once.
He didn’t want to give the baby back. He didn’t even know how to hold a baby yesterday, and now the idea of handing her over felt wrong.
“You always wear those damn wigs,” he said absently.
Effie blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Wigs. Makeup. All that crap. I didn’t know your hair was strawberry blonde.”
“I—” She looked down, brushing at the hem of her robe. “I started wearing wigs when I was fifteen. Part of the etiquette curriculum.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Seemed expected.”
“It’s nice,” he said. “Your hair. It’s nice.”
A flush climbed her neck. “Thank you.”
There was a long silence.
Wren squeaked again, before looking up at him with a very suspicious expression, causing both of them to laugh. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed her laugh. How much he’d missed watching it take over her whole face, like she simply couldn’t contain it.
“Can I hold her while she sleeps?” he asked.
Effie’s head jerked up.
“I can put her in the bassinet,” she said, “but… yes. If you want.”
He sat on the couch, the baby tucked into the crook of his arm. Effie hesitated for a beat, then sat beside him, closer than she usually would.
Wren made a soft sound and curled in tighter.
They both stared at her.
After a long time, Haymitch spoke. “You’re braver than me.”
She looked over. “Why?”
“You’re doing this alone. I don’t even know how to be sober.”
“I’m not alone.”
He glanced at her.
“You write to her,” she said. “You’re here. You’re trying. That’s enough, Haymitch.”
He didn’t answer. Not right away.
Instead, he turned his head slightly. Looked at her - really looked at her.
No lashes. No shimmering paint.
Just Effie. Pink-haired, bare-faced, exhausted.
Beautiful.
He wanted to kiss her. But he didn’t.
Because she deserved better than a broken man and a moment like this.
So instead, he said, “Thank you.”
Effie leaned her head on his shoulder. Carefully, so she wouldn’t jostle the baby.
“You’re welcome,” she whispered.
And for a while, they just sat there, in the silence, together.