#that fear. walking on eggshells. the knowledge that it's fucked up yet the insistence of holding on tight anyways
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it’s like. the detailing of an abusive relationship, watching the trainwreck happen, knowing it is fucked up & this can only end badly, but it worms into my brain and digs and makes me remember things that probably would be best not remembered
me realizing how deeply this story was digging and then just Slamming the emergency exit button bc lmfao
#speculation nation#abuse ment/#there was. a story i read a few years back. where the goal of the story was documenting the escape from the relationship#but just reading the relationship in motion put me in a really Really bad mindstate#listen im not 18 anymore. ive long moved past that mindstate. but these kinds of things make me Remember in a way nothing else does#that fear. walking on eggshells. the knowledge that it's fucked up yet the insistence of holding on tight anyways#bc they were the only one who gave me a sense of validation and affection i was lacking Anywhere else#i realized recently. upon asking myself what my biggest regret was. that this was it#holding on so tightly that i destroyed two other relationships. because i was more afraid of being alone than being hurt#oh i really need to not read any more of this at all. not even a pause i need to read Nothing more#bc wow this has fucked me up more than i thought it would#im. gonna take my quiz. then watch some critical role while painting my nails.#i think i caught it soon enough to not majorly impact me. i think a night of chilling should set it right. Hopefully.#bc ha ha ha these are things i really dont want to be remembering. thanks
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The Uses of Sorrow: Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness - tell me it doesn't smell of voiles to you?
for this prompt meme. this will be up on ao3 in the evening.
A Box Full of Darkness (½)
The thing about corporating out of some bandages onto that wooden floor… the thing is that no matter what Noshiko and her oni say, no matter that the oni’s hold on him felt like they were scraping claws on the inside of his skull and deemed him free of corruption, Stiles doesn’t feel like a real person.
He’s got all of his memories, sure. Even the ADHD came through fine. PTSD and nightmares are real winners too.
But there used to be a small scar over the knuckle of his index finger, where Mrs. Peterson’s pomeranian bit him when he was eight. He had to get stitches because it kept spurting blood everytime he twitched his finger. There’s no faint line above his eyebrow where Erica bashed him in the face. He has no scars now, except onore, the “self” the oni branded him with.
Stiles is a copy, and he can’t forget it when his own body is a testament to the truth. He traces the kanji when he’s distracted, wondering if the mark is supposed to fade at some point. He doesn’t think it will.
Maybe the oni missed something vital, something still curled around the back of his brain.
When he finally turns to Google to answer the questions still buzzing around his head like that fucking fly, Stiles finds himself staring at a webpage full of Japanese and reading it as easily as English. He tabs away, checking emails before typing another search term into the browser.
After a while he realizes he’s reading a PDF of the original Kojiki, combing for references to the god of foxes, kitsune, or nogitsune. The old Japanese holy text is already liberally annotated. The corner of his screen reads 4:30am and he has to be at school in less than four hours. Stiles sucks in a breath, clenching his hands into fists until they stop shaking.
He slams his laptop shut and faceplants into the bed, packing away this new horrifying revelation and shoving it into a dark corner.
The visualization helps a little, even if his skull starts to feel scraped out and raw again.
Stiles tries to forget about it.
He won’t be able to, but he tries.
-
“Stiles,” a voice whispers in his dream, and the sad thing is Stiles thinks he’s actually able to tell it’s not real without even counting his fingers. The figment of his own brain speaks into his ear, and Stiles waves it away until it disperses like so much mist.
He knows he’s not possessed. He’s too empty for that voice to be real.
-
Then Scott calls them to Derek’s loft.
“And everything looked fine, his door was locked, nothing out of place, but…” Scott trails off, distressed. Stiles looks around, but everything is just as open and lifeless as ever.
“But what? Did you find something that points to this kidnapping theory?” Stiles finally snaps when Scott doesn’t continue.
“Of course he didn’t find anything. This place has been professionally cleaned. That cobweb that’s been there since he moved here is gone,” Lydia says, pointing to the corner by the window. Scott squints like his eyesight isn’t perfect, and Stiles can read his frustration with missing cues that only Lydia could deem ‘obvious’.
“So what, you want Lydia to run her hands over everything in the room to see if someone capped Derek? Seems like just asking for tetanus.”
Scott shoots him a look full of exasperation and Lydia brushes past him, rolling her eyes as she prepares to listen.
For about five minutes, Stiles has hope they can resolve this quickly.
-
He can’t say why he comes to the clinic, his thought process not much beyond every minute that passes is another Derek may be dying.
They have nothing. No leads. No new impressions. No one they can really reach out to. Isaac and Argent fucked off to France to run away from their grief, practically gone dark but for the few texts from Isaac over the last weeks. So far they’ve received no reply about their worries for Derek, and if Stiles is honest he’s not sure Argent is up to making all the calls necessary, not with Allison gone.
(And that hurts too because even when he feels unreal he can still feel his hands gripping the blade that sank into Scott the same way it must have sunk into Allison and it hurts-)
But he finds himself picking the lock into the vet clinic almost absent-mindedly, his thoughts focused on fending off that twist of grief threatening to drown him if he lets it.
Deaton isn’t in, but it’s not like Stiles needs him to get past the mountain ash lines or whatever other supernatural traps the druid laid.
(And he feels unreal again because how can he be human after getting puked out his own body or when he feels like there’s a subtle awareness of his own energy like something buzzing under his skin and reminding Stiles how hollow he is)
He comes back to awareness while popping open a padlock with steady hands. He curiously lifts the lid off the metal chest and peeks inside.
He slams the lid again, clicks the padlock in place, and runs out the clinic as fast as his legs can carry him.
-
First is the fear. How did Stiles know it was there? Did it put him in a fucking trance- but no, he’d seen the runes all over that chest, so surely Deaton was using that to contain its influence. Surely. But then how did Stiles know where to find it.
Close on fears heels comes anger, because Argent was supposed to take care of it, to make sure it never hurts anyone again-
But that’s too much to ask of a man whose daughter died because of that thing. Because of Stiles.
He hisses, hitting the wheel with his open palms until they ache and then gripping for all he’s worth.
“Stiles,” his dad says on the other side of the door and Stiles yelps, banging his knee hard into the dashboard. “You okay, kid?”
Damn it, even his paranoia isn’t good for anything if he didn’t notice his dad walking up to the Jeep. Stiles scrambles to unbuckle and get out. His dad’s raised eyebrows don’t help the embarrassment he feels when they both realize he’s wearing just his pajamas and a pair of sneakers. He didn’t even put on socks.
“Hey, you haven’t been sleepwalking again, have you?” John asks, his face twisting up with concern. He sets a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles can’t help how he flinches. The next moment he’s being reeled in closer and pulled into another of those hugs – the ones that happen when they’re both thinking about things better left unsaid. “No, not sleepwalking, I promise,” he mutters, not quite sure how true it is. “There’s just, been a lot going on and…” Stiles mentally flails, casting about for a suitable lie, and John pulls away to look him in the eye again. This is the part where Dad asks what’s going on, and Stiles comes up with some high school drama, some small werewolf thing, a story about how he had a nightmare and wanted to grab some coffee and didn’t think to change clothes…
But his dad just looks at him, doing his best to be patient without walking on eggshells. Stiles’ next breath hitches on a sob he can’t quite choke down.
“It’s about Derek…”
-
It’s easier to convince his dad than Stiles thought it would be, even with their paper-thin conclusions that Derek has been kidnapped.
His dad files a missing persons report and reaches out along the few contacts he has that haven’t yet burned their bridges with the Hellmouth that is Beacon Hills. In the process they finally reel Peter into things, which is in hindsight a mistake. He has nothing helpful to add but snarky comments and an intense fixation on watching Malia. Stiles keeps an eye on them, and Malia may as well be bristling at the attention. He carefully keeps himself between them, even though she probably won’t hesitate to go through him if Peter says something to piss her off.
It should be a red flag, how little that prospect frightens him. Instead Stiles is forced to push it aside for that clock ticking down somewhere in the back of his head, telling him that Derek is running out of time. He’d think it was just anxiety giving him a panic-inducing imaginary countdown, but… somehow Stiles is just sure.
Nothing good will happen to Derek if they don’t find him in time.
-
No leads, no leads and the clock is ticking. Argent still won’t get back to them.
He keeps going back to the loft, even though Lydia got nothing more than blood, gunshots, and a woman’s voice. Nothing helpful, and Stiles keeps getting stuck back on the floor, shining with a faint lemon-scent by unknown hands. They only have assurance that Derek didn’t die here, despite probably being shot.
Even Kira’s mother has little to say in the matter. It doesn’t surprise him – celestial kitsune have never been very useful aside from summoning oni and some flashy cleansing powers… and if that’s not thought Stiles ever would have had before, he shakes his head and ignores it.
The way he’s trying to ignore the knowledge that there is someone – something – that could touch the featureless concrete and know, because it deals in pain and suffering and feeds on it even years later.
It’s Peter who finds him there, still standing in the middle of the floor an hour later. The sound of his name breaks Stiles out of his thought process. Peter grabs his arm when he tries to brush past him and Stiles can’t help his flinch.
He’s immediately let go, and can’t quite process what’s happening for a moment when Peter takes a step away from him. Bewildered, Stiles finally meets his eyes.
“Are you alright?”
It’s the last thing he expects to hear from Peter and he blinks hard. “What- I…” he stops, straightens a little to look at the wolf on the same level. “I’m fine. I am,” he insists when Peter squints at him. Stiles’ heartbeat is as steady as it ever gets. He isn’t lying.
-
It’s easy as anything to download a Japanese keyboard to his phone. Even with shaking hands, he has a few emails sent out before he unlocks the door to his dark, empty house. His dad is on shift, and with everyone out looking for any sign of Derek he can’t expect company for the evening.
In his pocket, his phone buzzes once with an incoming email.
-
The hostess only raises an eyebrow as Stiles skids through the restaurant door two minutes before closing. He musters his best sheepish smile. “Uh, pickup for Stilinski?”
“Of course,” she says, picking up a large bag and setting it on the corner before him. “Cash or card?”
Stiles pays and quickly leaves again, hoping that the sheer amount of karaage and inarizushi he bought will make up for it not being warm when he finally eats it. But no, he can’t think about that right now. Focus is what’s needed here.
He drives with both hands on the wheel, counting his breaths just so panic won’t cause him to run off the road. The Jeep’s beaten up enough as it is, it probably won’t survive another head-on collision with a tree.
He could swear the wards and mountain ash prick at him as he picks the lock again. The quiet snick of the last pin sliding into place echoes ominously, reverberating in the hollow space carved into his chest. The plastic bag in his hand grows heavier. Nevertheless, Stiles makes his slow way to the dark office, counting his breaths.
He drives the screwdriver into the lock and it clicks open in time with his thudding heart.
Shock, an emotion screaming into Stiles’ brain like a livewire the instant his hand touches the box. A moment later that clears and rage hammers into him, the quiet thunk of a buzzing fly throwing itself mindlessly against the lid, trying to get at him.
It takes every ounce of self-control to set the box on the floor instead of dropping it, and he has to wonder if Deaton or Argent could feel this too, or if he’s just special. Stiles gratefully lets go but the buzzing only grows louder.
“Chill out,” he says, voice as steady as he can make it. He may be shaking, but the fly doesn’t need to know that. 1-2-3-4… he keeps counting on one hand, touching his thumb to each finger in sequence. With the other hand, he takes two styrofoam containers and opens the tops before turning the containers to face the box.
The buzzing stops.
Got your attention now, don’t I, you bastard. “Kitsune-tsuki,” he says, and if his accent is a little archaic, it can’t be helped. “Willingly, this time.”
The box actually twitches from how hard the fly buzzes, and Stiles doesn’t need to touch it to get the impression of rage and betrayal from it – it spent far too long wrapped up in Stiles’ neurons for him not to get to know it back, at least a little toward the end.
“It’s not a trick,” says the human kid to the monster, and Stiles wants to laugh, reassuring the only being he hates in this world more than Gerard Argent that he’s being sincere. Half a giggle slips out before he strangles it. “I know what it means to be kitsune-mochi. This can’t be a trick.”
In the quiet, the fly buzzes once, almost petulant.
Stiles scoffs. “You tricked Noshiko first, you don’t get to be pissed when she tricked you back.” His mouth pulls into a grin and there’s no one to see how strained it is at the edges when Stiles leans forward and negligently flicks the box of sushi with a finger. “Well?” he finally hisses at the silent hunk of wood, trying not to let his desperation show.
Somewhere in the next room, something drips loudly. The invisible clock ticks on.
Then a high, long buzz he can’t interpret, but he doesn’t have to when he’s already reaching to open the box with the yes ringing in his ears.
“Onegaishimasu,” he remembers to spit at the last minute, and then there is pain.
It’s not the slow invasion of dreams and backsliding sanity Stiles experienced before. It strikes like lightning, but inside, a rapid expansion of shadow driving seeking tendrils through all his veins and up his spine, curling tight around nerves and bone alike. The brand underneath his ear burns hot.
All is quiet for a long moment. The dripping faucet is dry and the pain gradually fades.
There’s an almost physical sensation as the nogitsune wends their way through his memories until they come to the reason Stiles has been so desperate in the first place.
Their laugh is full of razor blades, but he knows they’re amused at his petty need to save a pack member, even one that doesn’t like him very much.
So soon after you were rid of us, too.
Stiles wants to scream, and they can see his want and his restraint both.
Stiles reaches for a piece of inarizushi. Onegaishimasu, they sigh, in the same tone as someone settling into their favorite spot on the couch after a long day.
His mouth opens without his will behind it, tofu and rice accepted from a human hand as he feeds it to the fox.
They are bound.
-
Cultural notes:
kitsune-tsuki - possession by a fox spirit
kitsune-mochi - a person or family willingly possessed by a kitsune in order to bring fortune to their family
karaage & inarizushi - both traditional foods (fried chicken and a type of fried tofu on sushi rice) associated with kitsune and the god of foxes and rice, O-Inari
“onegaishimasu” - a phrase used by two players before starting their game of Go; a phrase used when someone has agreed to do something for the person saying the words, with the implication to “please do me this favor”
#fic#teen wolf#voiles#nogitsune/stiles stilinski#bxdcubes#still working on the next chapter#prompt meme
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Hello, hello!
This is me again with a brand new hayffie story! This story takes place around two years post war and it will deal with an accidental pregnancy. I had a lot of messages asking me about hayffie and kids over the last couple of years and it made me think because I am on the opinion that in a strict canon interpretation, they wouldn’t have children. So it made me think about what could happen if they accidentally found out they were expecting one given their frame of mind after the war and how interesting it would be if Effie’s trauma played a bigger role when Haymitch’s own demons have finally started being laid to rest.
Check the rest of the author note on [FF] or [AO3] for more info.
April Showers
1. Prologue
Almost two years after the end of the war, Haymitch still hated being shaken awake.
He jerked in a sitting position, his hand immediately searching for a knife that wasn’t there anymore – not now that he was permanently sharing his bed – his eyes scanning the room for enemies. The soft glow of the nightstand lamp was casting half of the bedroom in shadows but the furniture’s outlines were familiar enough that he blinked and took a deep breath. The smell immediately assaulted him but it must have been a remnant from his night terrors.
“Haymitch.” Effie whispered, a bit frightened. “Haymitch, are you awake?”
“Yeah.” he sighed, rubbing his face. “Did you have a nightmare?”
It wasn’t unusual for her to wake him up because of something like that.
When she had first showed up ten months earlier, almost a year to the T after he had first brought Katniss back, it had been with suitcases, debts and so many triggers he had spent the first few days walking on eggshells around her. Haymitch had been shocked the first time she had started screaming her head off in the middle of the night. After a week, it had become the norm. She had eventually migrated from the guest room to his bedroom – there was no point in her sleeping in another room if he had to cross the corridor to climb into bed with her to calm her down or if she had to sneak in his bed for the same reason. Sleeping together helped, as stupid as it sounded. His own night terrors had abated slightly. Hers, though, were still recurrent.
“Something’s wrong.” she said, her voice cracking with fear. “Haymitch…”
He frowned and finally took his hands off from his face to look at her, thinking she might still have been in the midst of her nightmare. It wasn’t uncommon for her to wake up disoriented or not to be able to tell dreams and reality apart anymore. It was odd she hadn’t yet latched herself at him though. She always clung to him if he was nearby when she was having a nightmare or a panic attack.
The smell, he realized a second too late, the smell was still there.
“Fuck.” he spat when he spotted the blood stains on her hands. He reached out but she recoiled with a wince.
“Don’t…” she pleaded. “Don’t touch me.”
“Are you hurt?” he asked, kicking the covers off them. “What did you do? How in hell did you…” He shut up abruptly when he saw where the blood was coming from. It wasn’t a cut on her palm like he had first thought. There were blood stains on her nightgown, near the apex of her thighs, and on the sheets. Enough that it made his stomach churn but not enough that he truly panicked yet. Given where the bleeding seemed to be coming from… “Okay.” he said stupidly, trying to take it in stride. Blood was one of her triggers. Last time Peeta had dropped a plate and cut himself, she had barely stayed together long enough to leave the room only to lose it in the privacy of the bathroom – keeping her insecurities, flashbacks and adjustment troubles from the kids was her prime concern. “Okay, sweetheart, it’s just…”
“Something’s wrong.” she repeated, her voice breaking in a sob. There were tears in her eyes she was making an obvious effort not to shed and her lips were wobbling.
“It’s just your period.” he winced awkwardly. “It’s not…”
“No.” she countered and she sounded sure enough that he didn’t insist. She pressed her blood stained hands against her stomach, her face contorted in pain. “It’s different. I… Something’s wrong.”
The panic that he had pushed down with rational arguments came back with a vengeance. She seemed certain, there was a lot of blood and, to the best of his knowledge, she hadn’t had her period since she had been tortured in prison so it was odd that it would come back now of all time.
“We need to get you to the hospital.” he declared, because it was the logical thing to suggest.
He should have known better.
She had spent too much time locked up in a hospital room after her rescue. She avoided doctors like the plague nowadays.
She immediately shook her head, curling up on her side and letting the tears flow. “No! No, I don’t want to go back! Please, Haymitch… Please.”
He passed a hand over his face, trying to keep his wits about him. Blood wasn’t just a trigger for her, after all.
“I will tell them to send a doctor.” he compromised. “I… We need to do something, alright? If you’re sure it’s not your… You need to see a doctor.”
It was probably best for them to send someone anyway. Haymitch didn’t have a car and the brand new hospital – well, they called it a hospital but it was more a clinic, really, the cases that required more technology were always transferred to Thirteen – was at the other end of the District. She looked in pain and she would never be able to walk all the way there.
He didn’t give her time to protest. He bolted out of bed and dashed down the stairs, almost tripping on the hems of his sweatpants because they were too loose on his hips. It was a short phone call, they promised to dispatch someone at once so he hurried back upstairs.
Effie was where he had left her, curled up on her side, crying softly, hugging her stomach. He crawled back next to her on the bed and brushed her hair away from her face, at a loss for what to do.
“What can I do?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. She was locked in a world of her own, a world of nightmares he couldn’t breach. He stayed with her for a couple of minutes and then decided she would have a fit if she snapped out of it to find out a stranger had seen her in that state, doctor or not. He grabbed a couple of towels from the bathroom and tried to clean her up a little, holding his breath all the while because the smell of blood was difficult for him. The sight of it on her thighs was already almost too much.
He didn’t think the bleeding was as extensive as he had feared but he was still entirely out of his depth. He tried not to find it awkward because he was a grown man and she was his… whatever. And she was in pain.
“Haymitch…” Effie breathed out after a few minutes. “Haymitch, I’m scared…”
He sat with his back to the headboard and petted her hair, letting her use his thigh as a cushion for her head. She clung to his leg, sometimes letting out a pained whimper.
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” he kept repeating. “It’s gonna be alright.”
He had never been so relieved to hear a car engine in his life. He had all the pain in the world to convince her to let him go meet the doctor.
The man was in his mid-fifty. He had graying hair, brown eyes, dark squared glasses, and an air of no-nonsense about him that made Haymitch feel slightly better. He regretted that Katniss’ mother had chosen to never come back because he trusted the healer and he didn’t trust strangers. He had heard good things about the man though. The doctor had moved to Twelve from District Six a little over a year earlier and had taken over the management of the clinic. People seemed to like him well enough.
“Clanius Larcher.” the man introduced himself, outstretching a hand for Haymitch to shake. He was all business and the victor might not have admitted it but his attitude was somehow reassuring. “Where’s my patient?”
Haymitch led him upstairs, explaining what had happened to the best of his abilities. The doctor nodded but didn’t offer any possible explanations of his own. He stepped in the bedroom and immediately went to sit on the bed next to Effie.
“Mrs Abernathy…” he started.
“She’s not…” Haymitch started only to stop. “We’re not married.”
No introductions as to who she was were necessary though. Everyone in the District knew who was living in his house, everyone in Panem knew where the last living escort had disappeared to. It had made quite a scandal.
“Miss Trinket.” the doctor amended. “I need to take a look. Is that alright with you?”
Effie, he could tell, wasn’t completely aware of what was going on. He shuffled on his feet, unsure if he should leave or stay.
“Haymitch…” she begged and it settled the debate. He sat on her other side and grabbed her hand.
“It’s alright, sweetheart.” he whispered, trying to comfort her. “I’m right here.”
“Where am I?” she sobbed. “Here or there? I can’t tell… I…”
Larcher frowned and looked at him, looking for an explanation.
“She’s having flashbacks.” Haymitch said reluctantly. They weren’t in a habit of sharing their demons with just anyone. “The blood… It’s a trigger. And she’s in pain… That’s… That’s not helping. ”
And it wasn’t helping him staying calm either. His hands were shaking and he glanced around, not surprised not to spot any bottle. Effie had a rule about alcohol in the bedroom.
“Can you calm her down?” the doctor requested, taking out disposable gloves from his bag and slipping them on.
It took five minutes before he managed to reach her and convince her she was in Twelve with him and not in a cell being torn to pieces.
“Miss Trinket, where does it hurt?” Larcher asked. “Can you tell me?” She waved in the vague direction of her lower belly, breathing deeply through the pain when the man asked her to describe it for him. The doctor kept a professional face but Haymitch saw the glint of worry all the same. “Alright.” the man said. “I really need to take a look now.”
She rolled on her back and Haymitch hesitated. “Do you want me to…”
“Stay.” she begged, grabbing his wrist and holding on tight.
“Okay.” he agreed immediately. “Okay, sweetheart.”
He tried not to look, to give her some privacy. Larcher was good at schooling his features but Haymitch could read the worry there, he was too familiar with the feeling.
“Can you tell me when your last period was?” the doctor asked.
She shook her head and touched her face, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
“More than two years.” she hesitated. “I am not sure. Before the Quell.”
Haymitch ran his fingers through her hair, trying to soothe her, to keep her grounded. He remained silent and did his best to hide the tremors in his hands but he was terrified. He had grown used to her living with him, he had grown used to kisses in the mornings and at nights, he had grown used to them, to the world and the life they had created for themselves. It might not have been a typical one but it was theirs and it worked and, as far as he was concerned, it was perfect. He would never go back to before, could never go back. He couldn’t lose her.
Larcher frowned, gently nudging her legs closed. She immediately curled up on her side again.
“You will find me very rude to ask this to a lady like yourself…” the doctor joked, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “But how old are you?”
He took off the blood stained gloves and placed them in a small container in his bag, obviously to be thrown away later.
“Thirty-seven.” she mumbled.
“Thirty-seven is a bit young for menopause.” the man observed.
“It wasn’t…” Haymitch cut in and then sighed. “Her body is damaged.” He licked his lips nervously, searching Effie’s eyes for consent. She simply nodded, burrowing against his side, apparently not caring that they had an audience - that was how he knew she was really hurting, and if that guy could help… “She was captured by the Capitol and tortured for information.” he explained. The fact that she had been tortured wasn’t public knowledge. People had been puzzled at her being pardoned after the war. The official reason was that she had helped the Mockingjay, the unofficial one was that Haymitch had bargained hard with Coin to secure her immunity. “The doctors said… Well, they said her body was too damaged.”
“I see.” Larcher nodded, keeping a blank face. “I will need to access her medical file, which means we need to take her to the clinic. The bleeding has stopped for now but I would like to run some tests and keep her under watch for a couple of hours.”
“But what is it?” Haymitch frowned. “You have an idea, right? Is she going to be alright or…”
He didn’t miss the look Effie and the doctor exchanged. It was brief but Effie turned her head away.
“I can’t say for sure until we have the tests results.” Larcher said.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital.” Effie protested. “I just… I can’t…”
“You do what you have to do to be okay.” Haymitch growled, before glaring at the doctor. “You have an idea. What is it?”
The doctor pursed his lips, tapping his fingers on his bag. “Could you be pregnant, Miss Trinket?”
“No.” Haymitch answered at once. “I told you. Her body…”
“Are you sexually active?” Larcher interrupted.
Haymitch flushed red, opening and closing his mouth.
“It is possible.” Effie whispered, shocking him into silence. “You think I had a miscarriage. It felt like a miscarriage.”
He may or may not have let out a strangled noise that sounded like a whine. “What are you talking about? You can’t have a miscarriage, you’re not pregnant.”
He was ignored both by Effie and by the doctor.
“I don’t think it was a miscarriage, I don’t see a mass or any clotting.” Larcher replied in a soothing voice. “I think a pregnancy is a possible explanation. We need to run some tests and I need you at the clinic to monitor you for a few hours.” She shook her head but the doctor grew sterner. “Be sensible, Miss Trinket. If you are not pregnant then we need to determine what is happening with your body. It is perfectly possible you are resuming a normal menstruation schedule. I need to study your medical history. And I can only do that at the hospital so… ”
“But she’s not pregnant.” Haymitch insisted, completely stunned.
Larcher turned an understanding but slightly amused gaze in his direction. “Mr Abernathy, it would help a lot if I didn’t have to deal with two patients tonight so, please, do take a breath before you faint and help Miss Trinket into something warmer. We will take my car. How’s the pain now?”
“Bearable.” she answered. “The cramps have stopped.”
“Good. That’s good.” Larcher nodded.
“But you can’t be pregnant.” he said again, as soon as the doctor had left the room.
“I don’t know.” Effie sighed, slipping her stained nightgown over her head. “It felt like a miscarriage.”
“How would you know how that feels like?” he snapped.
There was a vacant look in her eyes when she met his gaze. “I am so tired, Haymitch…”
He shut his mouth and helped her get dressed. He had to support her down the stairs and into the car. The trip to the clinic wasn’t that long but it felt like an eternity to him.
It was only the beginning.
Once they got to the small hospital, Effie was ushered away by nurses and it was almost twenty minutes before he was allowed to her side. She was awake, hooked to a drip, and looked more lucid, even though she reached for his hand as soon as she saw him. They had both come to hate hospitals with a passion after the war. He had spent too long waiting for her and Katniss to wake up.
“You should have gotten dressed, Haymitch.” she commented, clicking her tongue.
It occurred to him he was still in his pajamas: a pair of loose sweatpants and a long-sleeved undershirt. He had even forgotten to put shoes on. There had been room for only one thing in his mind and it had been her.
“Whatever happens, whatever’s wrong with you…” he said quietly. “I forbid you to die, sweetheart. I’m the one who dies first, okay?” From liver failure, no doubt. “So you can play the grief-stricken widow. Perfect role for you. I won’t be so good at it.”
“Don’t say things like that.” she hissed.
They stayed silent for a while, gripping each other’s hand and staring at the wall. Waiting. Haymitch hated waiting.
“I have been feeling nauseous in the morning for a week or so.” she confessed. “It passed after I had breakfast so I dismissed it.”
“You’re not pregnant.” he countered.
That was absolutely too terrifying to be conceived, even more so than waking up to sheets stained with her blood.
“Even if I was… I probably just lost it.” she shrugged, turning her head away from him.
“He said it wasn’t that.” he scowled. “It’s not that. You’re not pregnant anyway. Maybe it’s just your… thing.”
“Period.” she corrected with a sigh. “Really, Haymitch, you are a grown man…”
“Yeah, and grown men want nothing to do with a woman’s period.” he retorted.
The bickering brought them back on familiar ground and they kept it up, grateful for the distraction, until Doctor Larcher approached them, a clipboard in his hands and a nurse hot on his heels.
“So?” Haymitch challenged when the man remained silent for a second too long.
Brown eyes darted from the woman lying on the bed to the victor sitting at her side, finally stopping on their entwined fingers.
“Congratulations.” Larcher said – and Haymitch desperately wished he could have blocked out the rest but he heard anyway. “You’re expecting a child.”
Did you like it? Let me know!
#hayffie#effie trinket#haymitch abernathy#april showers#chaptered#post mj#book!verse#angst#hurt comfort#fluff#coconuts#post prison effie#protective effie#HBIC effie#angsting effie#angsting h#protective haymitch#dark side of h#parents hayffie#established#pregnancy#nightmares#cuddles#fame thing#the kids#hayffie pets
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