Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Haymitch's arm was starting to go a little numb under her head, but he didn’t move. Didn’t want to move. Effie was warm, and Wren was small and heavy against his chest in that weirdly grounding way babies were - like this tiny little person was anchoring him to the planet.

He couldn’t stop looking at her.

Wren made a soft noise again, a kind of hiccuped sigh, and her fist curled reflexively near her face. Her fingers were miniature, her nails barely visible. She had a tiny birthmark under her jaw. He didn’t know if Effie knew that. She probably did. She probably knew every single inch of this baby.

He swallowed.

After a moment, he asked, quiet, rough, “Was it hard?”

Effie turned her head slightly. “What?”

“The birth,” he said, eyes still fixed on Wren. “Was it… hard?”

There was a pause.

Then, so soft he almost didn’t catch it, “Yes.”

That landed somewhere deep in his chest.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just breathed, slow and even, trying to process it. And then:

“Were you alone?”

Effie sat up a little, just enough to shift so she could look at him more directly. “No. My friend was with me. She stayed the whole time. She’s the one who dropped Wren off tonight.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

“It was a long labor,” Effie went on, her voice measured. “Thirty-two hours. I went into labor early in the morning. I thought it might just be Braxton Hicks, but it didn’t stop. Got worse. Went to the hospital by mid-morning, and…” She trailed off for a second, glancing down at her hands. “It got bad, around the twenty-hour mark. Her heart rate kept dropping. They were talking about emergency surgery. But she came out just before it got to that point.”

She paused.

“I tore,” she added, almost clinically. “That part was awful. I couldn’t sit properly for over a week.”

Haymitch’s throat was dry. “Shit, Effie.”

“It’s fine.” She gave him a small smile, clearly choosing to ignore his language, at least for now. “It’s what happens. You knew it wasn’t going to be easy.”

“Yeah, but…” He shifted Wren in his arms slightly, gentler than he thought possible. “You went through that alone. I should’ve been there.”

Effie didn’t say yes, you should have, even though she could have. Even though she should have. She just looked at him.

“It was hard,” she said again, “but it wasn’t your fault. The only way you could’ve come to the Capitol was if you wanted the Peacekeepers dragging you off the train in chains.”

“I’d have tried,” he muttered.

“I didn’t want you here like that. I didn’t want you to be angry. I needed to be calm. For her.”

“You didn’t even tell me the day,” he said, almost accusingly. “Not ‘til after. You waited a week.”

She hesitated. “I needed to be alone with her first. I just did. I needed to figure out how I felt… how she was. Before I let you in.”

He didn’t have a response to that.

“I cried for hours after she was born,” Effie said softly. “She was tiny. They had to take her for tests, and I couldn’t even walk yet, so I just sat there, alone in a hospital bed, bleeding, shaking, and wondering if she would be okay.”

They sat in silence again.

“She looks like you when she sleeps,” he murmured eventually.

“She frowns like you when she doesn’t get her way,” Effie replied, her voice a little more wry.

“She’s got your hair.”

“She might lose it. Babies do that.”

“I thought everyone in this place dyed their hair. Why didn’t you?”

Effie smiled faintly. “I’ve never dyed it. I’m not even sure why.” She laughed. “The rest of me is fake. I figured at least one part shouldn’t be.”

He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t fake. That her smile, and her laugh, and her big stupid heart weren’t fake, and he liked it that way. But he didn’t. Instead, he just looked at her. Really looked. “She should see you like this. Without all the Capitol costume crap.”

She glanced away. “It’s not always easy. Being like this.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’s you. The real you*.*”

Her eyes flicked back to his. That moment held too long, too sharp.

She broke it. “She’s going to know you. I’ve been showing her your letters. Reading them out loud.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

“They were good. Some of them were funny.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “Really?”

“It could’ve been the post-birth delirium.”

He laughed, and she smiled.

Wren let out a soft, squeaky sigh and curled closer into Haymitch’s chest. Effie watched them with something aching in her gaze. She tucked a strand of her real hair behind her ear, and Haymitch almost reached to do it for her.

Instead, he said, “You were right. About me. I’m not… I’m not good for anything. Not for parenting. Not really.”

“Stop,” she said, sharp, but not unkind. “You’re here. You’re trying. And for now, that’s enough.”

“I missed her first laugh.”

“She hasn’t laughed yet.”

He blinked. “No?”

“She’s smiled. Gas smiles, mostly.” Her lips curved. “But I think she’s close.”

He looked down at Wren again, softer now. “I want to hear it. When it happens.”

“You will,” Effie said. “If you stay sober this month.”

He exhaled, slow and long. “I’ll stay sober.”

Effie shifted beside him, hesitating, then said, “If she starts fussing, bounce gently. And hum. She likes humming.”

Haymitch snorted softly. “What kind of music’s she into?”

“She’s got a strong opinion about lullabies. She hates the Capitol ones.”

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Effie’s hand drifted, without thinking, brushing her fingers gently over Wren’s impossibly soft head. Then, gently, her fingers brushed Haymitch’s arm too. She didn’t seem to notice.

He did.

“She likes being held while she sleeps,” Effie murmured, half-lidded now, her exhaustion finally catching up. “I think she missed you. I know she didn’t know you properly until tonight, but I think she knew you were misisng.”

Haymitch didn’t answer.

Because if he did, he might say something true.

He might say, I missed her too.

He might say, I miss you all year long.

So he just held the baby tighter, and let Effie rest her head on his shoulder again.

Chapter Text

The sun in the Capitol always felt artificial. It filtered in through the windos in soft golden stripes, too even, too polite to be real. But Haymitch still squinted against it as he woke, groaning softly under his breath. He was on his side, arm flung lazily across the other half of the bed.

Effie’s half.

She wasn’t there anymore.

The warmth of her, though - it lingered. They had shared a bed last night (for Wren, they had both said), and he’d pretended that he hadn’t felt her hand reach for his before pulling away.

And just to the left of the bed, nestled in a sleek cream-colored bassinet, Wren.

She was still asleep, arms spread wide like she owned the place, tiny lips parted in a slack, baby kind of peace.

Haymitch sat up slowly, his bones creaking in protest. He scratched a hand through his hair and glanced over at the baby again.

Three months old, and she looked like the best and worst thing that had ever happened to him.

He stood, padded barefoot out into the apartment. The smell of warm rolls and tea drifted through the air, and he found Effie in the dining area, still in her robe - hair pulled back into a messy twist, her real hair, her actual color - and pouring tea into two matching porcelain cups.

She looked over at him, and her smile was soft in a way it never was in public.

“Morning,” she said gently, setting the pot down.

“Hey,” he murmured, still a little gravel-voiced. He cleared his throat, rubbing at his jaw. “I, uh… didn’t drool, did I?”

“Not that I noticed,” she said primly, but her eyes were warm. “Though you did snore a little.”

“Charming,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face before dropping into a seat at the table. She’d laid out fresh croissants, a bit of fruit, and scrambled eggs - the kind he could actually recognize as eggs, not the weird gelatinous Capitol version.

“You didn’t have to - ”

“I wanted to,” she said, settling opposite him. “I thought it’d be nice. For us. For her.”

She glanced toward the other room, where Wren was still asleep.

Haymitch studied her for a second. “You didn’t sleep much.”

Effie shrugged. “I never do during the Games.”

“You used to,” he pointed out. “You used to crash so hard I could barely wake you when we were needed.”

“That was before I had a daughter.”

That word still hit him in the chest like a bag of bricks.

He looked down at the table. Took a bite of croissant just to do something with his mouth. It was warm, flaky, perfect. Probably baked fresh an hour ago in a building two streets away.

Effie sipped her tea, glancing occasionally toward the hall. There was a tired tension in her shoulders, but also something… softer. Something that looked like joy, or maybe contentment, beneath the surface.

He hadn’t seen that on her in years.

Then, from the bedroom - soft at first, but growing - a noise.

Wren.

Effie was already rising, moving with the kind of speed that came from pure instinct. Haymitch stood, too, though more slowly.

By the time he reached the doorway, Effie had the baby scooped against her chest, rocking her gently.

“She’s hungry,” she murmured, barely above a whisper, as if her body knew it before her mind did.

She didn’t ask him to leave the room. She didn’t excuse herself. She just sat on the edge of the bed, cradling Wren in the crook of one arm, and opened the front of her robe.

Haymitch paused.

He should look away. Right?

He’d seen Effie naked before, once, but that had been chaos - boozy, unspoken, frantic. Not this. Not her with her robe falling loosely around her shoulders, bare in a way that wasn’t sexual at all. Just human. Honest. The way a mother is with her child.

And yet it still made something deep in his chest twist.

Effie didn’t seem to care that he was there. She was focused completely on Wren, who latched quickly and immediately began to suckle, making those tiny, desperate little baby noises. Effie let out a soft sigh, her head tipping back, her body relaxing.

Haymitch just stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly after a moment.

She blinked, looking down at Wren, then up at him. “Sometimes. The first few weeks were hard. She didn’t latch well at first. I bled.”

His stomach turned. “Fuck, princess.”

“Language,” she whispered. He rolled his eyes.

“It got better. It’s better now.”

He watched them for another long second. “You’re good at it.”

“I didn’t think I would be,” she admitted. “I thought I’d feel… detached. Cold. But it was the opposite. The second they laid her on me, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, I loved her so much.”

Her voice cracked at the end of that, just a little, and she brushed a thumb across Wren’s cheek.

Haymitch didn’t speak. Didn’t know how to. So he just walked in, slow and tentative, and sat beside her on the bed.

They sat there in silence for several minutes, while Wren fed, greedy and content. Effie’s fingers played gently in the baby’s soft hair, her eyes growing glassy.

“She’s not going to know me,” he said suddenly.

Effie looked at him. “What?”

“She’s going to grow up seeing me once a year. Maybe two. She won’t know who I am.”

“She’ll know your handwriting,” Effie said softly. “She’ll know your voice. She’ll know your stories. She’ll know you write her. She’ll know you love her. That’s more than most people get, Haymitch.”

He swallowed.

“I’ll never be good enough,” he said quietly.

Effie looked at him for a long time. Her voice, when she answered, was barely above a whisper.

“You’re a lot better than you think.”

Wren made a soft pop as she unlatched, fussed for a second, then let out a little sigh as Effie adjusted her, pulling her robe closed again and holding the baby upright to burp her.

Haymitch reached out, hesitated - then laid his hand gently on Wren’s back, just between her shoulders.

Effie didn’t flinch. She just leaned a little into him.

And he smiled.

Chapter Text

Wren was asleep again, curled like a comma in Effie’s arms, her tiny mouth slack against her mother’s collarbone. Haymitch sat close beside them on the bed, one hand resting gently against Wren’s back.

They’d been like that for a while now. Just there. No talking. No arguing. No Capitol and District, no screaming tributes or haunted pasts. Just Effie, Haymitch, and this impossibly small human being they’d made together.

The calm didn’t last.

A door creaked open from the hallway, then another, and a thud echoed down the corridor - someone knocking into something, probably the coat rack. Then a voice, groggy and cracking, called out, “Miss Trinket?”

Effie sighed softly and shifted Wren into a firmer hold, her fingers instinctively shielding the baby’s floppy head. “They’re up,” she said under her breath, adjusting her robe to be more secure. 

The was more noise - something unintelligible, followed by more footsteps and another clumsy bump into the wall.

Effie stood smoothly, every movement careful and practiced, and moved toward the main room. Haymitch followed a few steps behind.

By the time the two teenagers shuffled into the dining space, still rumpled from sleep and blinking in confusion, Effie was standing tall, graceful as ever, Wren bundled neatly in her arms.

The boy, Brant, stopped mid-step. His eyes went wide. “Uh… there’s a baby?”

Lysa actually froze.

They both stared at Effie like she’d grown antlers.

Effie, to her credit, didn’t flinch. She just smiled that perfectly Capitol smile - polite, calm, utterly composed - and rocked Wren gently in her arms.

“Yes,” she said simply. “This is my daughter.”

The silence that followed was immediate and awkward.

Brant scratched the back of his neck. “I… didn’t know you had a kid.”

Effie gave a small, deliberate shrug. “It’s not generally public knowledge. I don’t bring her often, but I didn’t want to be away from her for long.”

That part, at least, was true.

“She won’t be in the way,” Effie added, her voice smooth as silk. “She sleeps through most things, and I have someone who watches her when I’m working directly with you both. You won’t even notice she’s here.”

Brant nodded quickly, clearly uncomfortable and eager not to offend. “No, it’s - it’s fine. I just didn’t expect it.”

“She’s quiet,” Effie assured, gently rocking Wren again, who let out a small, sleeping sigh. “And you two are welcome to eat. Breakfast is still warm. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The kids hovered, unsure, before shuffling toward the table. Lysa gave one last glance toward Wren, curiosity in her eyes, but didn’t say anything else. Effie turned away and carried Wren back to the bedroom, lips pressed to the baby’s hair.

Haymitch followed her.

Once the door was gently shut behind them, he muttered, “They didn’t even consider that I could be Wren’s dad.”

Effie gave him a look. “That’s what we want, Haymitch. It’s awful, and I wish it were different, but this is how it needs to be. It’s safer that way. For her. For you. For us.”

He nodded.

Effie bent to lay Wren back in her bassinet, gently tucking the blanket around her. The baby stirred slightly, smacked her lips, then settled. Haymitch stood just behind Effie, watching her with the kind of quiet awe he didn’t know how to say aloud.

“She’s got your eyelashes,” he murmured.

Effie’s shoulders stiffened, just a little, then relaxed.

They stood there for a second too long, both of them staring down at the baby like they were afraid if they blinked, she might disappear.

Then Effie turned toward him.

“We can’t afford to slip up,” she said, her voice low but firm. “If Snow finds out, or anyone in the Capitol starts asking questions—”

“I know,” Haymitch said.

“I mean it.”

“I know, Effie.” He paused. “I wouldn’t put her in danger. I’m not that drunk.”

Effie’s eyes softened just a fraction.

Outside, they could hear Lysa and Brant murmuring over breakfast. Wren shifted in her bassinet, one hand twitching in her sleep.

Effie glanced back toward the door.

“I have to get them ready for the prep teams,” she said. “You… you can stay with her if you want.”

He nodded. “I will.”

Effie brushed past him gently, her robe whispering against his hand, and then she was gone.

Haymitch sat down beside the bassinet.

He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, and watched his daughter sleep.

“Not gonna tell you I know what the hell I’m doing,” he muttered, voice so low it barely made a sound. “But I’m trying, kid. Just… hang in there with me.”

Wren, in her sleep, made a little snuffling noise and turned her head toward him.

He smiled. The last time he could remember smiling like that was at his sweetheart, and it struck him, for a moment, that grief.

God, how he wished Louella was here. Lou Lou, too. Maybe Louella and Sid would’ve gotten married, like he thought, maybe not. But she would’ve had a chance to live, and she, more than anyone, deserved that. 

He blinked the tears out of his eyes, focusing his eyes on Wren again. He hoped she grew up to be as kind as Louella. And as tough as Maysilee.

With Effie as her mother, he was sure she would.

Chapter Text

Wren didn’t wake, not really. She squirmed once or twice, her mouth moving in that dream-fed way, her fist curling near her cheek. But she didn’t open her eyes.

Haymitch stayed by the bassinet anyway.

He shifted in the chair Effie had placed next to it - some sleek Capitol thing that wasn’t made for comfort but didn’t creak when he leaned on it like his furniture back home.

Wren made a small, breathy sound, and Haymitch leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees so he was closer. Just the two of them now. The only people in the room who didn’t belong to either world fully. Not Capitol. Not District. Just… in-between.

He looked at her - really looked at her.

Her cheeks were round, too big for her face, like most babies. Soft pink skin, a little flaky in places, just like Effie had said in a letter a few weeks ago. Her eyelashes were long and fine. Her nose was tiny and slightly upturned.

She looked nothing like the things he saw every year when he came here. Not like the Tributes, not like the blood and glitter. Not like the Games.

She looked like life.

Haymitch leaned in closer, careful not to touch her bassinet and jostle it. His voice was gravel-soft.

“So,” he said. “You’re Wren.”

The baby made a little grunt in her sleep, her brow furrowing.

“Terrifying,” he said, nodding. “You got a name that makes you sound sweet, but your mom tells me you scream like a banshee when you don’t get your milk fast enough.”

He reached out, hesitated, then let his pinky brush the edge of the blanket. She didn’t stir.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re in for, do you?”

His voice dropped even lower. This wasn’t the voice he used with Effie. Or the tributes. Or even the letters.

This was just for her.

“You’re gonna grow up thinking this place is normal. Thinking this - these towers and trains and prep teams - is the way the world is. And I hope to hell your mom figures out how to teach you better before I have to.”

His mouth pulled into a grim half-smile.

“She will, though. She’s smarter than she lets on. You’ll learn that fast. She pretends to be all glitter and perfect manners, but she’s a hell of a lot tougher than she looks. She’s the kind of tough you don’t even notice until you’re bleeding and she’s the one holding you together.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“She did that for me, a few times. Keeps doing it, really. Whether I deserve it or not.”

Wren’s fingers twitched. One of her eyelids fluttered.

Haymitch watched her, then let out a long breath, like the air had been lodged in his chest all morning.

“I don’t know what kind of dad I’m gonna be. Probably not the kind you brag about in school. If you even get to go to a real school. Hell, if you do, don’t brag about me. Bad idea. Stay quiet. Say I’m your godfather or your weird old uncle or something.”

He leaned back a bit, rubbed at his jaw again.

“I wish I could be around more. But if I can’t be, your mom’ll cover it. She’ll be the one getting up when you’re sick, and telling you stories, and putting bows in your hair until you’re old enough to rip ’em out. She’ll do all of that. And I’ll write. And I’ll visit.”

His voice got quieter.

“And I’ll never stop loving you. Even if I barely know how to say it.”

Wren’s hand curled around the edge of her blanket.

Haymitch watched her, then gave a small, crooked smile.

“Alright, kid,” he muttered. “That’s enough mushy crap for one morning. Don’t get used to it.”

The door opened a few minutes later.

Effie stepped in, her hair now pulled into a neater twist, lipstick on, one of her professional outfits thrown over her figure. A wig covering her hair. She looked Capitol-ready—but tired still. Worn at the edges. The tributes were likely in the prep team’s hands now, and Haymitch knew what that was like. Nothing more fun than watching teenagers get waxed and buffed and scrubbed until they looked “presentable” for slaughter.

She glanced at the bassinet and then at him. Her expression softened.

“Was she alright?”

Haymitch stood. “Didn’t even blink. Kid sleeps like a rock.”

Effie crossed the room, brushing a hand lightly along his arm as she passed him. It was barely even a touch. But he felt it. Like a spark in his skin.

She looked down at Wren, then back at him. “Did you talk to her?”

Haymitch looked away. “Maybe.”

“Anything important?”

“Nah,” he said. “Just told her not to tell anyone I’m a sap.”

Effie smiled, warm and secretive, and bent to kiss her daughter’s forehead.

“She’ll figure it out anyway,” she whispered. “Eventually. You know, you’re not as cold as you think, Haymitch.”

That wasn’t true. He was cold. He was cold and mean and not fit to be a father at all. But he smiled anyway.

“Sure I’m not, princess.”

He ignored the blush that rose to her cheeks.

Chapter Text

It looked exactly the same.

Capitol city didn’t change much year to year - sure, fashion and trends changed, with different colours every year, but overall, it was always a lot of glass and chrome, a lot of clean lines, and everything looking far too… perfect - but this time, it felt different. It was different.

The tributes for the 68th Games had arrived that morning. A pair of twelve-year-olds, both scared out of their minds. The boy had a stutter and wouldn’t meet Haymitch’s eyes. The girl had clung to him during the reaping, so tightly they’d had to pry her off.

Effie had managed it, though. Calmed them. Coaxed them. She was better with the young ones than anyone gave her credit for.

And now, just like the year before, they were asleep. Finally. Tucked into unfamiliar beds in a strange Capitol suite that smelled too clean to be comforting. The long day had ended in the usual heavy silence.

Haymitch sat on the edge of the couch, fingers absently tracing the rim of his glass. It was water again. The month of the Games was dry. His promise still held.

He hadn’t broken it, not once. Though he’d been tempted more than a few times.

The apartment door buzzed softly.

He straightened, heart skipping in that strange, half-sick way it had all day. Effie was already halfway across the room, barefoot in her silk robe, her lipstick gone but her eyes sharp as ever. There was something nervous in the set of her shoulders, but also eager - like this moment had been ticking closer in her chest all day.

She opened the door.

And there she was.

Wren.

She wasn’t a baby anymore, not really. Fifteen months old. She had words now. Opinions. Hair that curled at the ends and stuck out in tufts when she’d been rolling around, which she clearly had.

Effie’s friend - Lorala, Effie had told him just minutes ago - held Wren on one hip, and the little girl was babbling to herself in a language only toddlers understood.

Effie reached out, and Wren dove toward her, arms outstretched, eyes lighting up with a squeal of “MAMA!”

Haymitch stood, frozen.

Lorala smiled, gave a warm goodbye, and slipped out with a quiet “See you soon.”

Effie shut the door softly behind her.

Wren twisted around in her mother’s arms, curious eyes scanning the room, already squirming to get down. Effie obliged, setting her carefully on the soft carpet.

Wren’s little legs wobbled slightly, but she steadied herself, bouncing once on her bare toes and scanning the room with full toddler authority.

And then her eyes landed on him.

She blinked.

Then grinned.

And then, clear as anything, in a voice still high and small and imperfect -

“Daddy!”

Haymitch’s heart stopped.

Effie’s did too.

Wren toddled over to him, arms up, chubby hands flexing in a way that clearly meant pick me up, and her grin only widened as she repeated it, louder this time.

“Daddy!”

Effie’s lips parted like she meant to say something. Maybe correct her. Maybe explain. But nothing came out.

Haymitch crouched without thinking, hands trembling slightly as he reached for the little girl who barreled into his chest without hesitation, wrapping tiny arms around his neck with complete and unapologetic trust.

He caught her. Held her. Felt the small, solid weight of her press against him like she belonged there.

“Hi there,” he said, hoarse.

Wren giggled. “Hi, Daddy.”

Effie covered her mouth.

Haymitch looked up at her. She looked stunned. He didn’t blame her.

He looked back down at the little girl in his arms. She smelled like peaches and baby shampoo and felt vaguely sticky, in the way all babies did, and she was looking at him with so much certainty.

Haymitch didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight.

He sat back on the couch with Wren still on his chest, her little fists tangled in the fabric of his shirt, her legs swinging against his ribs. She was humming something to herself now, off-key and distracted, already starting to drift into that half-asleep babble toddlers do when they’re somewhere safe.

He wrapped one hand around her back.

“I didn’t think she’d say it… infront of you,” Effie whispered after a moment.

Haymitch looked up at her, his voice barely audible.

“She’s said it before?”

“A few times. I’ve told her that it’s fine to say with just me, but she shouldn’t say it with anyone else around. I… didn’t how you’d react to it, either.”

“She can say it to me as much as she wants.”

Effie’s eyes went glassy, but she nodded. She didn’t move to take Wren back. Didn’t step away, either. She came to the couch and sat beside them, just close enough that her knee pressed lightly against Haymitch’s.

Together, they watched her.

Wren yawned and snuggled closer, content in a way that made the silence feel thick with something sacred.

“She’s heavier this year,” Haymitch murmured.

“She eats everything,” Effie said, a soft smile creeping across her face. “Even things she shouldn’t. Like conditioner. And dryer sheets.”

Haymitch made a soft sound in his chest. “Tough kid.”

“She bit the neighbor’s dog last month.”

He laughed, low and shocked. “She what?”

“It barked at her. She didn’t appreciate it.”

Haymitch glanced down. “You’re a little menace, huh?”

Wren let out a contented “mmm” noise and burrowed deeper.

Effie leaned against him, slowly, her head resting against his shoulder just like it had the year before. Like it was instinct.

Like it was home.

They sat like that for a long time. Until the lights dimmed on their own, and the Capitol outside settled into its polished hush, and Wren, in her sleep, muttered something incomprehensible that ended in a very soft “Daddy.”

Effie whispered, “We’re going to have to talk about this next year.”

Haymitch nodded. “Yeah. We will.”

But not tonight.

Tonight, they were here.

Together.