Summary: Thirteen years after the second Quarter Quell, District Twelve has yet to see another Victor, and Haymitch has yet to see a reason to smile. That is until your name is drawn, just a week before your nineteenth birthday, and both your lives change forever.
You don’t expect Haymitch to attend the Reaping. He didn’t attend any of the ones you went to as an eligible tribute, and he certainly wasn’t there when your name was chosen a year ago. You wouldn’t blame him for skipping the ceremony again this year– you’d skip it too, if you could. But with your sister and brother’s names each entered twice this year, you couldn’t stand to leave them on their own today.
So you’re surprised to see Haymitch showered, shaved, and dressed in one of his nicer suits, leaning against the foyer wall when you usher Amos and Sage downstairs.
“Ready to watch the shitshow?” He offers a crooked smile and a toast from his flask, “I’d say you both deserve a sip, but I think my wife would murder me.”
“You’d be right.” You ignore the strange feeling that stirs in your belly every time he calls you his wife, focusing on your confusion instead. “Are you coming with us?”
“Of course,” he says it like it should have been obvious, “Who else is going to break the tension by throwing up on the Peacekeepers?”
That gets a giggle out of Sage, and a disgusted expression from Amos, both of which make you feel (not for the first time) an intense surge of gratitude for Haymitch. You’re never sure what to do with it, the warmth he invokes so often lately, and so you settle for looping your elbow through his and squeezing his arm.
He pockets his flask and reaches his other hand over to cover yours, his palm warm and reassuring before you step out of the house and walk to the town square.
There’s no need to smile and wave to the crowd in Twelve, whether they believe your marriage is real or not, there’s no celebration in the Reaping. Still, the cameras are rolling, so you keep your hand in Haymitch’s as you take your seats next to the mayor on the stage.
And if the warmth of his hand around yours helps keep the steady thrum of panic at bay, well, you’re not going to complain.
When the mayor reaches into the bowl with the girls’ names, Haymitch squeezes your hand and leans close, covering his murmur with a kiss to your head.
“Breathe.”
You exhale, realizing you’d stopped breathing entirely a moment ago.
“The female tribute from District Twelve is Maya Hawkins,” the mayor announces, and a pale girl of no more than fifteen comes forward.
Your heart aches in relief, and then guilt. Sage is safe, but Maya deserves no less. Her mother, June, is pregnant with Maya’s youngest sibling. Maya never speaks to you when you and Aleen visit, but she’s usually busy tending to her three other brothers, ten, seven, and five.
“Keep breathing, angel,” Haymitch whispers, squeezing your hand again as the mayor steps up to the second bowl.
“The male tribute from District Twelve is Dieter Murphy.”
He’s an older boy, probably seventeen, likely recalculating his plans to work in the mines. He might have a chance, he has strong shoulders, he doesn’t look too starved or sick, like some of the others. But of course, there are no guarantees in the Hunger Games.
“May the odds be ever in your favor.”
The crowd disperses while the Peacekeepers escort the tributes off to say goodbye to their families. Amos and Sage run to the stage, and after a wave from you, the Peacekeepers let them pass. You kneel to meet Sage’s hug, reaching out and grabbing Amos’s hand to pull him into your embrace as well.
After a conversation with you and Haymitch the night before, they’d agreed to stay at home while you and Haymitch return to the Capitol. You don’t want them anywhere near the Games as long as you can help it, and after the near-disaster of the victory tour and the overwhelming attention of the wedding at the Capitol, they decided they preferred the quiet privacy of home.
“Don’t do anything she wouldn’t do, and don’t do anything I would do.” Haymitch tells them as you pull away.
“What?” Sage tilts her head, confused, while Amos just rolls his eyes.
“Be good,” you say, leaning down to kiss each of them on the head. “We’ll be back soon.”
Seeing the Games from the other side, approaching them as a mentor instead of a tribute – as a survivor instead of a sacrifice – is a surreal experience. You remember your own fear and desperation so clearly, it’s difficult not to project your own reactions onto Maya and Dieter. You struggle to accept that they will handle the ordeal differently.
For starters, neither of them leave their rooms on the train. Haymitch tells you not to worry, that it’s typical for tributes to want to process their death sentence on their own, that if they don’t want to talk, trying to force them won’t help anything.
But you can hardly sit still– the clock is already ticking towards that haunting twenty-four second countdown. You only have a few days to prepare them, to help hone their skills, to send them off to their deaths with even the smallest chance of survival.
When you do talk to them, you discover a frustrating mix of silent defeat from Maya and stubborn independence from Dieter. Maya seems resigned to die, sullen and cynical, while Dieter seems convinced there’s nothing you or Haymitch can offer him that he doesn’t already know.
In the holofilm of the training rooms, you see Maya sitting out of the skills courses, while Dieter shows off his strength and speed with almost as much hubris as a Career. You tell them to make the most of the tools at their disposal, not to draw attention to themselves, to scope out the other tributes for alliances, but neither of them want to listen.
In your one-on-one training, Maya barely retains anything, while Dieter insists on doing everything his own way. After several days of unsuccessful sparring drills, you start losing your patience.
“Let’s try something different.” You push your sweat-slicked hair away from your face, “Haymitch and I will demonstrate, and then you break down what you saw.”
You lock eyes with Haymitch, where he’s sitting with his legs stretched out and leaning back on his palms, having watched you pummel Dieter over and over for the last half-hour. He shrugs his agreement and gets to his feet, stretching a bit before making his way over to you.
“Watch and learn, kids,” Haymitch boasts, giving Maya and Dieter a lopsided smile as he turns to face off against you.
You dart forward, hooking your foot behind his ankle and knocking him off-balance. He doesn’t fall, but counterbalances with his other foot, grabs your arm, and drops his weight to flip you over his back. You let him, but use the momentum to catch him in the ribs with your elbow on your way down. You roll away and get to your feet, coming back swinging. He dodges, and then takes a jab at your stomach. You catch his fist, grab his wrist, and twist his arm around his back. Before he can break out of it, you kick the back of his knee, causing his legs to buckle. You push until his cheek is pressed against the mat and you’re pinning him down from behind.
He lets out a breath, and the smirk you can see on his face is the only thing that gives the sound away as a laugh. You let him go, stepping back and helping him up.
You squeeze his hand and meet his gaze, silently asking: “You okay?”
His cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are bright and his smile only grows as he nods and pushes his lanky hair away from his face.
“And that,” he turns to Maya and Dieter again, “Is one of the many reasons why I married her.”
You feel your own face heat up. One-on-one sessions aren’t monitored by holo, and neither are meetings between tributes and mentors, but you and Haymitch agreed early on that it was too risky to drop the pretense of your relationship at all during the Games, cameras or not. You never know who’s listening, or who could mention the wrong details to the right people.
Still, he says it with such pride and affection, you can’t help but feel your stomach flip. It’s dangerous, this arrangement– and you’re more aware of it now than ever before. When you build a life out of lies, everything around you starts to look like the truth.
But this feels like the truth. The way he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist even though you’re a sweaty mess, the way he lays a kiss on the top of your head like it’s second nature, the way it makes your chest tight and your heart race.
“Alright,” you clear your throat, but make no move to separate yourself from Haymitch– he smells like home, and you can feel the familiar comforting pulse of his heartbeat through his chest, “Why did I win?”
“Because he let you.” Dieter answers, as if that should be obvious.
“I did not,” Haymitch corrects, squeezing your hip like he can feel the frustration boiling up inside you, “Why did she win?”
“Because you’re an out-of-shape alcoholic and she’s a Victor.” Maya interjects, “And neither of you can guarantee that we’ll live to become one or the other.”
You step out of Haymitch’s hold, inhaling sharply and preparing to exhale any number of choice arguments when he speaks first:
“Okay, I think that’s enough for today.” Before he’s even finished the sentence, both tributes are heading for the door. “...good work, everyone.”
When the door shuts behind them, Haymitch turns to you, warily taking in your balled fists and tight jaw.
“Would kicking my ass again make you feel better?”
Part of you wants to say yes, because you’d like nothing more than to punch something. But it wouldn’t be right or fair to take your anger out on Haymitch. He doesn’t deserve that.
But you do need to unwind somehow.
A memory flashes momentarily behind your eyes, of your last sparring session with Haymitch before your Games, when you pinned him on his back and straddled his hips. You think about closing the distance and kissing him, the memory twisting into fantasy as you imagine his hands lifting to your hips, holding you tight against him, maybe even–
You blink, feeling your cheeks burn. You can’t look at him now, not after that thought, and pivot towards the door instead.
“I need a drink.”
You can hear the grin in his voice as he follows, “Now you’re speaking my language.”
That’s been happening more often since returning to the Capitol– thinking about kissing Haymitch. Well, obviously you think about it when the cameras are around, or there are sponsors watching and it’s a calculated strategy to keep people rooting for (and funding) the tributes from Twelve.
But you keep thinking about it when there aren’t any cameras. When there’s no one else around, and it’s just the two of you, you find yourself watching his mouth as he speaks or takes a swig of whiskey. And now, with a slight haze of tipsiness from your own glass, you have to hold yourself back from leaning forward and taking what you actually, truly, really want.
You want it to be real. You want his smirks and his jokes and his hidden compassion to be yours, genuinely and wholeheartedly, not for some calculated survival strategy. You want him to mean it when he says you’re beautiful, that you’re smart and strong and he wouldn’t want anyone else. You want him.
But you know it’s not real. You know he suggested the marriage out of guilt and regret, that it’s a life-long apology for betraying your trust. You know he probably won’t love again in any capacity, not after the loss of his mother and his sister and everyone he ever cared about before.
You don’t blame him. You’re grateful that he gives what he can, to you and to Amos and Sage. You knock on his door every night out of a pitiful, desperate desire to hold onto something real, even if it’s just his touch, even if it’s just his voice, even if it’s just the beat of his heart. You’ll take whatever he’ll give, because even that is enough to make it all easier, to keep the nightmares at bay and soothe the invisible scars you carry within you.
You know what it is, this feeling, even though you’ve never felt it like this before. In all your youthful wonderings, you never thought love would hurt so much.
“We should focus on the sponsors.” Haymitch says, and you force your gaze onto his eyes, so beautiful and blue. “Maya and Dieter aren’t responding to the training, and we’re wasting time at this point. Our best chance at helping them is to make sure they get the supplies they need in the arena.”
Your head drops back against the couch. “Why won’t they listen?”
“Who knows,” Haymitch muses, “Maybe they’re stupid. Maybe they have a death wish. I’ve seen both before.”
You lift your head, tucking your chin a bit out of shame as you take another sip– it’s easy to forget how much death he’s seen, barely thirty, but with fourteen Games behind him.
“Normally, I’d give up at this point.” He admits, draining the rest of his whiskey.
“Why not this time?”
He gives you a sideways glance as he sets his glass down, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach flip.
“I didn’t give up last time,” he says, “That turned out okay.”
Your mouth moves faster than your brain. “Just okay?”
He holds your gaze, his expression dropping into something more serious, as if searching for a hidden meaning in your question. Somehow, you manage to keep eye contact, despite your heart beginning to pound so hard you think it might crack your ribs.
“Sometimes,” his voice is quieter, softer, “It feels too good to be true.”
You swallow thickly, daring another question. “Do you ever wonder…do you ever think about how it would have been if I hadn’t been picked at the Reaping?”
“Honestly?” He lets out a breath, pouring himself another drink. “No. I’ve never thought about it.”
“Do you think we would have met? Do you think we…” You ask, feeling an inexplicable desperation for an answer, for an alternative, for a world where he would have chosen you out of nothing more than love– not obligation, not guilt, not necessity. “Would we be friends?”
He takes a slow sip, eyeing you again, and you’re not sure if you want him to hear the real question you’re asking.
“You wouldn’t have looked at me twice.” He says, finally.
“You don’t know that–”
“The only place we’d see each other would be the Hob, and unless you started selling moonshine, we’d have no reason to interact.” He looks down into his glass, swirling the whiskey, “I’d go back to my house and drink alone, and you’d be…doing the same things you do now. Working with Aleen, taking care of your siblings, you just wouldn’t have to deal with any of this shit.”
You want to interpret “this shit” to mean the Games and the Capitol, but you have a sinking feeling he’s talking about himself.
“I wouldn’t change it anyway.” You say, putting your glass down and shifting so you can lean against him. He adjusts immediately, lifting his arm to curl around you, holding you against his side. You press your face into his shoulder, your words muffled, but still audible as you say: “I wouldn’t want to live a life where I don’t meet you.”
You hear him inhale, his body tensing for a moment before he relaxes, exhaling a shallow laugh.
“You’re drunk.”
“Maybe. But it’s true. I mean it.”
“Well,” he clears his throat, his arm tightening slightly around you, “That’s why I’ve never thought about it– if things had gone differently. They didn’t. I met you. And that’s all that matters.”
“That’s all that matters.” You echo, feeling sleepy as you relax into the warmth of his body. You drift off within minutes, lulled to sleep by the familiar pattern of his heartbeat.
~
If there’s one thing Haymitch is good at (other than drinking and pining after his own wife), it’s charming sponsors. When he decides to turn on the charisma, there are few who can resist, whether he’s flattering, bantering, or persuading. He can read people from a glance, tailoring his approach, his strategy, telling people what they want to hear in exchange for their support. It’s easy, honestly.
And this year, it’s easier than ever. Because all anyone wants is a chance to talk to his wife. He gets it– there’s something exciting, something special about being the object of her attention, to receive the warmth of one of her smiles, let alone feel the electricity that comes from eliciting her laughter. He can relate, perhaps more than anyone else, to the desire to be noticed by her, to be liked, even to be loved.
But that doesn’t mean he likes seeing people vying for her attention. Haymitch hates it, in fact.
It’s like a bizarre ritual of nature, watching the swarms of vapid Capitol elites crowd her in a dizzying swirl of feathers, animal patterns, and brightly dyed hair. The original plan was to divide and conquer, to secure as many sponsors as possible individually. But Haymitch abandons that plan the moment he sees a tall, leering man in a purple suit reach out to touch Y/N.
In the span of a few strides, Haymitch pushes through the small crowd, winding his arm around her waist and not-so-subtly pulling her away from the purple pissant.
“There you are, gorgeous,” Haymitch says, turning to kiss her cheek and murmur, “New plan: you don’t leave my sight.”
She leans into him slightly, maintaining a smile as she nods.
“I was just complimenting your wife on her hair,” Pissant drawls, “Her stylist is truly incomparable.”
“Chrys is wonderful, yes.”
“You should really be complimenting Y/N on her work with this year’s tributes.” Haymitch says, “Her first year mentoring and she’s already better than I am.”
“He exaggerates.” She laughs.
“Not at all. They’re a difficult pair, but she won’t give up.”
“I noticed a certain…attitude during their interviews.” Another sponsor, a woman with shimmering scales grafted along her neck and shoulders says.
Haymitch represses a sigh. The interviews had been a disaster. Maya said barely anything at all, while Dieter only boasted about his skills (while having only scored a six in the assessments), and neither did much to win the audience’s attention or affection at the end of a long night of interviews.
“Well, she’s a tough act to follow.” Haymitch says, “Any tribute from Twelve would look lesser in comparison.”
“That’s true.” Pissant agrees, eyeing Y/N in a way that makes Haymitch’s fingers twitch against her waist. “No one shines quite as bright.”
“Still, I wouldn’t have won without support from my sponsors,” Y/N says, and Haymitch could kiss her, he’s so impressed. “I would have died without the medicine and food you sent to me, out there in the snow.”
It’s a lie. They both know she would have found a way to survive, but the reminder of her underdog story, of the sponsors’ own responsibility, the ego boost of having “helped” a victor win is enough to send the crowd bustling away to add their donations to the Twelve sponsorship fund.
But it only goes so far. Much as Y/N is adored, much as Haymitch sweet-talks, there’s no hiding that Maya and Dieter are far from frontrunners. They’re not even underdogs– they’re just dead kids walking.
Still, Haymitch tries. He chats and flatters and persuades, though he knows it won’t go anywhere. He does it to keep the spark of hope alive in Y/N’s eyes, because he can’t bear to see her heart break again if there’s something he can do to prevent it.
Plus, he can keep an eye on Pissant. The purple-clad creep insists on approaching Y/N every day, hanging around, always moving closer whenever Haymitch lets go of her hand or steps away for even a moment. Haymitch sees it all, especially the hungry glint in Pissant’s eyes, and knows it’s only a matter of time before he crosses a line.
It happens the day before the Games begin.
There are no more sponsors to charm, at least not until the Games start and there are specific things to bargain for, and the mentors largely keep amongst themselves in the viewing room. Haymitch introduces Y/N to Chaff, feeling oddly nervous to see his wife’s reaction to his friend.
“I didn’t know you sustained a head injury during your games.” Chaff says to Y/N with a mischievous smile. “You must have brain damage to have willingly married him.”
Chaff laughs heartily at his own joke, while Haymitch rolls his eyes.
“Says his friend of how many years?” Y/N fires back.
“Almost fifteen, now.” Chaff says, “But I don’t have to live with him.”
“He’s not so bad,” Y/N glances at Haymitch, “I certainly wouldn’t trade him for anyone else.”
“Oh, so it’s not brain damage,” Chaff grins, “It’s just insanity.”
She smiles. “I prefer to call it luck.”
Chaff turns to Haymitch, clapping him on the shoulder. “I like her.”
“Yeah,” Haymitch says, his throat dry after hearing all that false-praise spoken with such earnesty, “She’s alright.”
Y/N punches him lightly in the arm and he gives into the urge to kiss her.
There are always sponsors watching, anyway, so it’s fine. He thinks, feeling that familiar spark of electricity zing down his spine as his lips press against hers. Her hand lifts to his cheek, and her fingertips linger for a moment as he pulls away. His chest feels painfully tight.
“I need a drink.” He says, “You two want anything?”
“Whatever you’re having.” Chaff says.
“Just some water.”
Haymitch nods, reaching down to squeeze her hand while he gives Chaff a meaningful look. “Look after her.”
“Yes, sir.” Chaff gives a loose two-finger salute, and Haymitch heads for the bar.
He orders two whiskeys and a water, he downs one whiskey right away and orders another.
“Nervous about tomorrow?”
The hair on the back of Haymitch’s necks stands up at the too-familiar voice. He turns, leaning his elbow casually against the bar as he faces Pissant.
“Nope. Just an alcoholic.”
Pissant blinks, and Haymitch smirks to himself at having thrown the simpering asshole off. Haymitch reaches for the other two drinks, more than ready to walk away, when Pissant speaks again.
“And how does your wife feel about your drinking habit? I’m no doctor, but I know there can be certain…drawbacks. Especially in the bedroom.”
Haymitch can’t quite tell whether the heat flickering in his chest is rage or the burn of whiskey, or maybe a dangerous combination of both.
“I’d watch what you say next, pal.”
“No offense intended.” Pissant raises his hands in mock surrender, “I’m trying to help you. You need more sponsorships than you’re going to get, if those little mine rats are going to stand a chance tomorrow. I can offer you my entire fund.”
Nothing about Pissant seems above board, but Haymitch lingers anyway, at least to hear out the entire shitty deal before he says no.
“Somehow, I don’t think you’re offering out of the goodness of your heart.”
“I do ask for a small price in return. Really, I’m offering you a favor.”
Haymitch is losing patience with this guy. Just the tone of his voice makes him want to hit something. “Out with it already. What do you want?”
“Let me fuck your wife.”
The reaction is involuntary and instantaneous– Haymitch couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. His body burns, his mind goes blank, and his fist slams right into Pissant’s nose.
The force of the hit is enough to knock Pissant backwards. He crashes into the bar, knocking over several glasses as blood gushes from his face.
“You broke my nose!” He cries.
Good, Haymitch thinks, pride filling his chest. The vast room around them has gone deathly silent, but Haymitch can’t bring himself to care. He wants the whole world to hear what he has to say next:
“I’ll break your legs if you ever come near my wife again.” He seethes, staring Pissant down. “If you even look at her, I’ll kill you. Got it?”
Pissant nods. Well, as much as he can while tilting his head back, trying to stop the bleeding.
“I can’t hear you.” Haymitch curls his hands into fists.
“Got it!”
He feels himself smiling, though rage still pulses through his body. That same energy propels him away from the bar, and towards her. Chaff stands slightly in front of her, looking ready to back Haymitch up if necessary. Haymitch nods at his friend in appreciation. Without breaking his stride he grabs his wife’s hand and pulls her toward the door.
She could pull away from him if she wanted to, but she doesn’t. “Haymitch, what–”
“We’re leaving.” He says.
She lets him lead her out of the viewing room, but tugs back on his hand once they’ve rounded the corner of the corridor, forcing him to either stop or let go of her hand. He stops, reaching up with his free hand to tug at his tie, yanking it loose instead of meeting her concerned gaze. She squeezes his hand, and he forces himself to breathe a little deeper, a little slower.
“He wanted to make a deal.” Haymitch runs a hand through his hair, “He said he would sponsor Maya and Dieter if– if I would let him fuck you.”
He hates the words, the crudeness of the image they create, but softening the wording might not explain why he had to do what he did, why that asshole deserved so much worse than what Haymitch gave him.
“So I punched him. And I think you heard the rest.”
Haymitch stares at the well-pressed fabric of her trousers, unable to look at her, not wanting to see her reaction. Disappointment, anger, maybe even fear. He’s probably fucked up any chance of getting sponsors for Maya and Dieter, possibly blacklisted Twelve for the foreseeable future. Maybe if he lets Y/N take the lead with the sponsors, they’d have a chance, but who’s he kidding– he’d never let her walk into that room by herself again. He fucked up. Again. There will be consequences. Again. And–
His thought spiral stalls, his heart dropping as her hand slips out of his. But then her hands lift to his face, her gentle touch forcing his gaze to meet hers. There’s nothing but understanding in her gaze, and something else Haymitch is afraid to name. His anger suddenly melts into the feeling he suspects was driving him all along– love for her. It hurts, crowded tight in his chest with nowhere to go, moving up into a lump in his throat.
“Thank you,” her voice is quiet and gentle, “He was looking at me like a cat stalking a canary all week. If he tried anything, I would have punched him too.”
Haymitch’s lips twitch. “I would love to see that.”
“Seeing you break his nose was pretty good.”
“Felt good, too. I just– it’s hard enough watching all these Capitol people look at you and talk about you like you’re not a person– like you’re some toy for their entertainment. I know it’s harder for you, but hearing him say that shit, like– like I owned you. It just– I got so angry. And I know I fucked up. Okay? I know it, but I’m not sorry. If it costs us, if it means tomorrow–”
She cuts him off again, this time by wrapping her arms around him. She presses her face into his neck as his arms immediately lift to circle her back.
“Haymitch. Breathe.”
He exhales. She pulls back to look at him, and he’s afraid to open his mouth in case he accidentally says it, right there and then. I love you.
And then she kisses him. Even though there are no holos or sponsors or Peacekeepers or anyone around to see. Even though it’s just the two of them, she kisses him. His hands flatten against the middle of her back, pulling her closer.
He returns the kiss, with more fervor than he ever has before, letting out the frustration he’d been trying (and failing) to contain. There are no thoughts in his head, otherwise he might have wondered at the meaning of her lips parting and allowing him to deepen the kiss. All he knows, as her hands drop to his shoulders and she presses herself closer, is that he wants this, he needs this, he needs her.
He pushes her gently backwards until he has her against the wall, one hand moving to her waist and the other to her jaw as she lets out a gasp, hands gripping the fabric at his shoulders, hips pressing up against his. An involuntary groan rips through his throat as his fingers clamp down on her hip, pinning her against the wall with his weight.
Her fingers slip lower, sliding into the now-open collar of his shirt, brushing against his neck in a way that has another zap of electricity sparking down his spine. He lets his own hands wander, his fingertips just barely slipping under the hem of her blouse, caressing the soft skin of her stomach.
The sound of someone clearing their throat has her pulling back, her head turning away from him. Haymitch moves slower, his mind hazy with want and renewed frustration. He’s considering pulling her away again, this time all the way up to the District Twelve penthouse, where they won’t be disturbed. But then the interloper speaks, and Haymitch turns to see Chaff.
“You two should get back in there.”
“If he’s demanding an apology, you can tell him to go f–”
Chaff holds up a hand, a smile lifting at his lips. “You two will want to get back in there.”
While Haymitch’s curiosity is not stronger than his desire to keep kissing Y/N, she decides to listen to Chaff, and Haymitch is forced to follow her back into the viewing room.
They’re swarmed immediately by sponsors, each praising Haymitch for his valiant defense of his wife, cooing over Y/N and how lucky she is, and condemning Pissant for his behavior. Apparently the bartender overheard the exchange leading up to the punch, and word spread quickly amongst the gossip-loving crowd.
Should have known they’d love a show of violence.
As a result, District Twelve receives the most sponsorships ever seen in one day in the history of the Games, keeping Haymitch and Y/N busy in the viewing room into the early hours of the morning. There’s no time to talk about the kiss, though Haymitch can’t get it out of his mind– what it means, if it meant anything, whether it will happen again.
Finally, they have one last visit with Dieter and Maya before their entrance into the arena. Y/N looks too pale and remains too quiet as she pulls each of them into a hug and tells them not to give up. Haymitch offers each tribute a handshake and a different piece of advice: “Don’t be stupid.”
None of it matters in the end– the training, the advice, the sponsorships. Not a single part of it makes any difference. Maya dies in the first thirty seconds, her neck snapped by a Career within her first few steps off the platform. Dieter dies five minutes later, with a knife in his neck and a backpack in his hands, trying to escape the cornucopia.
Haymitch and Y/N leave the Capitol an hour later, boarding the train back to Twelve in silence.
~
You feel nothing and everything all at once. It’s all there – guilt, relief, anger, confusion, regret, fear, exhaustion – but the only thing you can bring yourself to do is lie down and stare up at the ceiling.
Haymitch doesn’t join you, and you’re dimly aware of the sound of glass clinking in the dining car. You watch the light stutter in a rhythm as the train speeds past the towering buildings of the Capitol and Districts One, Two, and Three, before plunging through the forests of the Districts beyond.
You must fall asleep at some point, because it’s dark when you open your eyes again, and you can feel the weight of Haymitch’s arm across your stomach. His breathing is heavy, loud in the way it only gets when he’s completely drunk and passed out. You watch the night shadows on the ceiling until they turn into the silvery light of early morning, and the train slows to a stop in District Twelve once again.
You’re barely present as you hug Amos and Sage, your voice sounding distant and flat to your own ears as you say you’re tired and slip upstairs to your bed. Not Haymitch’s bed, where you’d slept every night for weeks, but your own bed. You pull back the covers, crisp and untouched, and lie down again.
You hear the door open, you hear Haymitch ask if you want to talk, or if you want to be left alone. You’re not sure if you say anything, or if he just intrinsically understands that you don’t want either– you just want him to hold you.
You turn over to stare at the wall as he lies down beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you firm against his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers draw soothing, looping patterns over your arm. You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the pillow growing wet beneath your cheek.
Days pass in a haze, marked only by the shadows moving along the walls as you lay in bed. You rise long enough to slip into the kitchen for a drink of water and a bite of food before retreating back to your bed. Amos and Sage whisper outside your bedroom door, quiet enough that you can’t make out the words, but can hear their worry all the same.
Haymitch doesn’t voice his concern, but you can feel it in his gaze, in his touch, in his heartbeat, all focused on you. A year ago, all you wanted was this– his unwavering support. He’s changed, no longer the drunken recluse who pushed you away. Now he’s present, he’s caring, he’s selfless.
And it’s too much.
You asked for it, you begged for it, you wanted it, but now you’re sure you don’t deserve it. You’ve tried everything, you’ve been strong and hopeful and self-sacrificing; you’ve told the truth, you’ve lied; you’ve killed and you’ve protected; you’ve hated and you’ve loved. None of it made any difference. The Capitol controls the game, and they win every time. You’re just a piece on the board, to be moved according to their whims.
The day the Games end, you leave the house. Haymitch is out at the Hob, and Amos and Sage are back in school. You walk aimlessly into the woods, wandering through the trees with no destination in mind– until you reach the lake.
Summer is at its peak, the trees are full and green, the sun bright and hot on your skin, and yet you think of Felix and his blood soaking into the snow. You walk into the water wearing your clothes, feeling yourself grow heavy under the weight of the soaked cloth.
You remember the sensation of sinking, your coat dragging you down to the bottom of the frozen lake in the arena. You remember kicking Silk in the stomach, making her open her mouth, letting the air out and the water in, seeing her drown as you struggled to the surface.
You wade into the water until it reaches your shoulders. You think about next year, whether Amos and Sage will be spared. Even if they are, others will die. In the arena, in Twelve, all across Panem. Another outbreak of illness, another accident in the mines, another round of executions.
You inhale, and let your head become submerged beneath the water, the sounds of the world beyond becoming muffled by the murky sounds of the lake. You close your eyes. Somewhere between sinking and floating, you let yourself feel it all, soaked in the pain and memory and regret, yet surrounded by water and light and life.
Just as your lungs begin to burn, begging for air, you hear the blurry sound of the lake’s surface breaking, the water disturbed by something. You sink your feet into the muck at the bottom, pushing up towards the surface, when someone grabs the back of your shirt and wrenches you upwards, out into the air once more.
A voice is shouting, and whoever pulled you out wraps an arm tight around your middle, dragging you through the water. You fight back, struggling to break free as you thrash against the constricting hold bringing you back to shore.
“Stop– hey, it’s me, it’s me!”
You falter as the voice finally registers– Haymitch. An inexplicable burst of anger fills your chest. He can’t even let you escape the heaviness in your chest, the desperate despair of longing you feel when he’s around, not even for a minute.
As he pulls you into the shallow water you manage to hook your leg behind his knees. He buckles, his grip loosening, and you break free, stumbling ahead of him on the rocky beach.
“Fuck– Y/N!” You hear him scrabbling over the stones, chasing after you as you start to run.
He catches you just past the treeline, throwing himself at you and tackling you to the forest floor.
“What the hell–” he grits out, desperately trying to pin you down as you try to flip over, “–is wrong with you?”
You throw your elbow up and back, hitting something soft, probably his stomach. He groans, losing his grip, and you pull yourself forward, trying to get to your feet. His hand locks around your ankle, but you turn over before he can pin you again, kicking at him with your other foot. He dodges, and then catches that ankle too, dragging you back.
“Stop it– just– goddammit,” He launches forward, dropping his weight painfully down onto your hips, immobilizing your legs, while his hands catch at your wrists, slamming them down onto the ground beside your head. “Stop fighting!”
“Let me go.” You seethe. “Just let me go!”
You buck against him, but he presses you harder into the dirt, something flashing in his eyes.
“No!” He snaps, the frustration in his voice tinged with desperation. “I won’t. I’ll never let you go. I won’t let you run away or drown or die. Alright? I’m not letting it happen. I will not lose you. I can’t.” His grip tightens on your wrists almost to the point of pain, his head hovering over yours, drops of water dripping from the ends of his hair onto your cheeks. “You don’t get to give up. You don’t get to disappear. I’ve done both, I’ve done worse, and I know you’re better than that. You’re better than me. I will not let you become like me. Not after you saved me– not after everything. You’re everything to me. Do you get that? Everything I do is for you, everything I am, it’s because of you– and if I lost you–”
He cuts himself off, his voice breaking at the thought. His brows pinch as he squeezes his eyes shut, his fingers flexing against your wrists. It’s too much– the weight of him against you, the look of anguish on his face, the way his words have your heart pounding in your chest. It’s too much, and somehow exactly what you need.
You can’t move far– Haymitch has made sure of that – but he’s close enough that you can feel his breath on your face, close enough that you can count the droplets of water still clinging to his eyelashes, close enough that you can lift your chest and stretch your neck and press your lips to his.
It’s as if your kiss breaks him. He practically collapses into you, his chest dropping to press against yours as he returns your kiss like he’s going to devour you, consume you, like he needs you more than air. His tongue pushes against your lips and you part them without hesitation, feeling the heat of desperation changing within you, shifting to a need unlike any you’ve felt before.
You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, just briefly, and he lets out a noise, somewhere between a whine and a moan, that leaves fire flickering low in your belly. His grip loosens on your wrists, and you break free, lifting your hands to bury your fingers in his hair, keeping his mouth on yours.
He plants his palms against the ground, leveraging himself to grind his hips against yours, making you suddenly aware of his erection– heavy and stiff against you. You moan at the sensation, your head tilting back enough that he moves his attention to your neck, kissing and sucking and nipping at your skin like an animal claiming territory. Every graze of his teeth and caress of his tongue sends sparks down your spine, stoking the fire, making you want more, more, more.
You manage to hook your leg around his and flip your positions so you’re on top, straddling his waist. You rip his shirt open, dragging the see-through fabric away from his chest before diving down to leave claims of your own, biting and kissing at his neck and chest, sending him collapsing onto his back, groaning your name as you rock your hips over his, seeking more of the delicious grind of his clothed erection against your core.
“Let me see you,” he begs, straining to sit up, fingers fumbling with the wet hem of your shirt.
You sit up, pulling it off. You haven’t worn a bra since returning from the Capitol, and without your shirt, you’re left on full display. He doesn’t give you a chance to feel self-conscious or exposed, his expression going slack with awe as his hands caress your waist.
“Fuck, angel,” he pulls you toward him, sitting up enough to take your left breast into his mouth, murmuring, “so beautiful,” before switching to the other. Whichever breast isn’t subjected to more of his bruising kisses is palmed by his hand, your nipples tweaked and teased until they’re hard and you know that even if you hadn’t gone into the lake your pants would be soaked by now anyway.
“Haymitch,” you groan, grinding your hips faster against his.
“Ah–” your nipple slips out of his lips, “Yeah, angel?”
“I want more. I want you– inside,” you shift backwards, palming him with your hand.
“You want to fuck me, sweetheart?” His words are teasing, but his voice is desperate. You can feel his cock twitch when you smile and say:
“Yeah.”
“Take what you need, angel.” He says, his hands palming your breasts again, “I’ll give you anything– anything you want.”
His head drops as you undo his fly and touch him, skin against skin, freeing his cock from the confines of his pants. He’s not small, but not so big that you’re worried about taking all of him. You've heard stories from women around Twelve, about their husbands being so big it only hurts.
Haymitch would never hurt you. You shift away long enough to shuck off your pants and underwear before straddling him again. You shift up onto your knees, but before you can reach for him, he puts one hand on your hip and takes his cock in the other.
“Let me do it,” he says, “Please, angel.”
You nod, biting your lip in anticipation and need. He lines himself up, and presses down on your hip, guiding you to sink down. His head breaches your entrance, and wet as you are, the stretch still burns.
“Breathe,” he urges, and you exhale, sinking lower. “That’s it–” his praise is cut off by a loud groan as you drop your hips and take him all the way, crying out at the blinding mix of pleasure and pain.
“Fuck, angel,” he gasps, “You’re so tight. Here–”
He drops a hand to where your bodies meet, his thumb sliding until he finds your clit. Your body relaxes, a moan leaving your lips as he begins pressing steady circles into your skin, stimulating the nerves at your core, shooting pleasure all over your body.
You start to rock your hips again, feeling fireworks of sensation light up your body at the feeling of him inside you, pressing against you, giving you pleasure. After a few minutes of grinding, the pain is gone, and you shift experimentally, lifting your hips a bit before sliding back down. At the same time that you moan, Haymitch’s head hits the ground, his fingers stuttering against your clit.
“You like that,” your voice is hoarse, and you repeat the motion, pressing your hips down harder, taking him deeper. “Don’t you?”
“I love it.” He says, a spaced-out smile on his lips, his other hand tightening on your hips, “Don’t stop, keep going.”
He returns to your clit, rubbing faster, and you feel the fire of pleasure building in your belly, threatening to explode. Your hips move faster, the rhythm getting more erratic.
“I think–”
“Me too, angel.”
And then he bends his knees and starts thrusting up into you, matching the movement of your hips. You let out what sounds like a wild, gasping laugh, your hands falling to brace against his shoulders. He thrusts once, twice, three more times, and you lose it.
Pleasure explodes across your body, blurring your vision, clearing your mind, and setting your skin on fire. You cry out, your nails digging into his skin, barely aware of his hips still hitting yours, fast and desperate, and then you hear him say your name, broken on his lips, as warmth fills you.
You fall forward, collapsing against his chest, and his arms circle you immediately, his lips finding your forehead and cheeks and finally your lips, kissing you with a soft, desperate kind of satisfaction that you can’t help but hold his face in your hands and kiss him back.
When you shift, letting him slide out of you, you feel the mess between your thighs, sticky and wet. Still, you smile, your body feeling relaxed, your mind calm for the first time in weeks.
You sit up enough to look at him, taking in the leaves stuck in his tangled hair, the dirt smudged across his forehead, his torn shirt wrinkled and ruined. If you could bring yourself to look away from him, you’re sure you’d see that you’re even more of a mess. But he meets your gaze with something like wonder, his hand lifting to brush your hair away from your face, and you can’t help but grin. He grins back, wide and bright and beautiful.
~
Y/N doesn’t say anything as they walk back to the Village, but it’s a different silence from the one that’s shrouded her for the last week. Where she was distant, and disconnected, she now seems present and alive.
If she realizes the significance of what they’ve just done, if she feels it as deeply as he does, she doesn’t show it. She simply holds his hand, looking out at the forest as though she’s seeing it for the first time.
Haymitch, on the other hand, feels like the gentle grasp of her hand in his is the only thing keeping him from imploding. The last few hours feel like they’ve last years, with how much everything has changed.
His body grows warm at the memory of what they’ve done, the sensation of her lips and hands and teeth on his skin still fresh, the deep-set satisfaction of having her pin him down and take what she wanted. He came barely twenty minutes ago, and yet replaying it all in his head makes his dick twitch again.
He wants to kiss her again, to press her up against a tree and drop to his knees and taste her, but he doesn’t know if she wants it– if it was just a release of pent-up anger, if it doesn’t mean to her all that it means to him.
But he can’t hide it anymore (if it was ever hidden in the first place)– the love he feels for her, the life he lives for her. He can’t take back the things he said by the lake, but he doesn’t want to, anyway.
So as they reach the house, he takes a deep breath and leads her into the dining room with as much confidence as he can muster, revealing what he’d gone to the Hob to find that morning:
A loaf of bread. With a candle stuck clumsily on top.
“Happy birthday, angel.” Haymitch says, his throat dry.
She stares at the simple, clumsy gesture for a moment in silence, her eyes wide. Haymitch holds his breath, unable to read her reaction until she moves in a blur, wrapping her arms around him and holding tight. She presses her face into his neck, and he exhales with her, kissing her head as he returns her embrace. They hold each other for a while, breathing quietly together, until she pulls away, taking Haymitch by the hand and leading him to sit down at the table with her.
She keeps hold of his hand, and takes a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” she looks down at their intertwined fingers, not meeting his gaze, “I know I scared you, I just– I felt so helpless. No matter what I do, I can’t stop it, I only make things worse. I gave Felix false hope, I put my siblings in danger, I put you through a sham wedding–”
“Stop.” He wants to hear her out, he knows this is something she needs to get off her chest, but he can’t. “First of all, the wedding was my idea in the first place. Don’t take credit for my plans– they’re all I have going for me.”
She smiles at that, and Haymitch feels bold enough to continue, his tone shifting into sincerity.
“Second of all,” he lifts his free hand to her jaw, guiding her to meet his gaze, “It’s not a sham. Not to me. It’s real– for me, it’s real. I’m yours, for as long as you need me, through sickness and health and age and beauty and all that shit. I meant what I said at the lake– you saved me. Not from the Capitol or the Games or this shitty world, but from myself. Why do you think I call you angel?”
“Haymitch–” she breathes, but he can’t stop until she’s heard everything.
“I love you. You don’t have to feel the same way, but I need you to know. I love you, angel, more than anything.”
He exhales, feeling ten pounds lighter for having finally gotten the truth off of his chest, until–
Shit. You made her cry, you fucking idiot.
It’s nothing hysterical, just shining eyes and a few tears escaping down her cheeks, but it’s more than enough to spark panic in his chest. He rushes to wipe the tears away, opening his mouth to apologize, when she smiles, wide and relieved, and says:
“I love you, too.”
If his own confession lifted a weight from his chest, then hers makes him feel like flying. He blinks for a second in shock, though his mind is already connecting the dots, pointing out what should have been obvious all along if he’d allowed himself to believe it.
“I–I want this to be real. You and me.” She says, “Even if everything else is a show, if this is real–”
Haymitch practically hauls her up out of her chair, dragging her into his lap and pressing her hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest.
“Do you feel that?”
She nods.
“That’s my heart beating for you, angel.” He looks up at her with a lopsided smile, “It doesn’t get more real than that.”
She shakes her head, as though in disbelief, but smiles anyway, and leans down to kiss him. He wraps his arms around her, crushing her against his body as he kisses her back, pouring all the love he no longer has to hide into the embrace. Her hand slides up from his chest to cradle his cheek. Unlike the fire which consumed them by the lake, this kiss is full of a soft warmth, a certainty.
When they pull apart for air, she lets her forehead rest against his. “I don’t want to give up. Next year, I want to try again– but I don’t know how.”
Haymitch wishes he had an answer for her, an easy solution, a cure for the disease of the Capitol’s control. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds her closer.
“We’ll figure it out.” He promises, “Together.”
~
Haymitch keeps his promise, in the months and years that follow. It’s not easy– surrounded by watchful eyes and a system stacked against you, but you find ways of subverting their control, of stacking the odds, and stealing happiness.
It begins with talking– just you and Haymitch. With your biggest secrets revealed, it becomes easier to admit the rest. Your fears and regrets and dreams and hopes. Speaking it all aloud, even just in the soft darkness of your bedroom, helps make what would otherwise be overwhelming and terrifying feel more manageable, because you’re facing it together.
Out of your communication, comes a plan. It starts small– you decide to teach Amos and Sage how to survive the Games. You still hope they’ll never have to face the arena, but you refuse to let them go unprepared, to wait until the last minute, as you did with Maya and Dieter. You and Haymitch teach them how to fight, how to improvise weapons, and hone the survival and hunting skills they’d just begun to learn from Pa before he died.
And then Amos suggests extending your lessons to the other children of the District. Haymitch spends a year setting it up– covert conversations in the Hob, determining how to evade the Peacekeepers, finding a space big enough for what you need to do. It takes another year to work out the system, but by the spring before the sixty-eighth Games, you’ve got it down to a science. You and Haymitch rotate, one of you at home in the village at all times, while the other waits at the lake for the day’s assigned group to arrive, led by Amos and Sage under the guise of playing in the woods. Training commences, the kids running one-on-one combat drills, or sent off to practice building fires, climbing trees, and filtering drinking water.
It takes patience, knowing it will be yet more years until the tributes from Twelve have a fighting chance, but you’re doing what you can– you’re making a difference, even if it’s a small one. Even if it’s just instilling these children with a sense of strength and power in a world that tells them they’re nothing.
Maybe someday, you’ll see another Victor from Twelve. Maybe they’ll be able to make a bigger change, maybe they’ll be able to set the world on fire, and build it anew. Maybe you’ll live to see it. Until then, you can only hope, and keep trying.
Summary: Thirteen years after the second Quarter Quell, District Twelve has yet to see another Victor, and Haymitch has yet to see a reason to smile. That is until your name is drawn, just a week before your nineteenth birthday, and both your lives change forever.
Staring at your reflection in the mirror of the vanity in your bedroom, you trace your fingertips over your right cheekbone. While you feel soft, clear skin, you still remember the stinging pain of the cut and the warmth of the blood seeping down your cold cheek.
Except there is no blood. There’s not even a scar. The cut faded to a thin line and then disappeared months ago thanks to the creams and medicines the Capitol sent home with you.
The dark circles under your eyes, however, earned from almost half a year of haunted, sleepless nights, are harder to hide. You thought Chrys might chastise you for the unsightly symptom of your insomnia when they arrived in District Twelve this morning to help prepare you for the Victory Tour, but they had just smiled softly, sadly, and pulled out a palette of powders set to your exact skin tone, and got to work.
You look beautiful. You understand that in a sort of distant, detached way. You look like the shining, glorious victor Panem expects you to be, dressed in a luxurious deep green cashmere jumper and fleece-lined, perfectly fitted black trousers. Soft and elegant, but striking, just what the world wants to see; but not at all how you feel– not what you actually are.
Underneath the expensive clothes and carefully applied makeup, you are exhausted, traumatized, and haunted. You are not a victor, not a winner, not proud or grateful or even relieved. You are a survivor, yes, but also a murderer and a failure.
You didn’t deserve to win, to survive, anymore than the other tributes – the other children – deserved to die. The blood on your face may be gone, your scars may be erased, but you will never wash the blood from your conscience.
“Y/N!”
You snap out of your thoughts, panic spiking through your chest at the sound of Sage shrieking. You’re up and running, leaving your chair clattering to the floor as you rush down the hallway towards the sound of your sister’s distress.
You burst into the room, eyes wide as you scan for danger.
“Amos ruined my new shirt!” She whines, flapping her arm in its partly unraveled sleeve.
“I didn’t mean to!” Her brother protests, “The thread got stuck and pulled.”
Your breath leaves your chest in a heavy sigh, and you force your muscles to relax from their tensed state of panic.
“It’s alright.” You assure them both. “Amos, it’s not your fault. And Sage, it’s not ruined. Pick out something else to wear for today, and I’ll ask Chrys to mend the sleeve on the train.”
“They can fix it?”
“Chrys fixed me up,” comes a familiar voice from behind you, “So I’m pretty sure they can do anything.”
You turn to see Haymitch in the doorway, looking more like the mentor you first met than the stranger he’s become in the months since. You haven’t seen him like this since you left the Capitol, since you were both primped and polished before your victory interview. You had looked at him, sitting in the front row in a black suit, forcing yourself to breathe and smile your way through Caesar Flickerman’s false empathy and forced reminders of Cassius and Silk’s death at your hands, of Felix’s torn and bloody corpse.
You fell apart as soon as you left the stage. Your memories of the train ride home are spotty, but you remember him holding you, talking to you, trying to piece you back together.
He stopped trying when you got back to District Twelve.
Haymitch stepped away from you when you reached your too-new, too-big, too-clean house in the village, backing away as you were lovingly smothered by your siblings’ embrace, your tears of desperation and fear turning to tears of relief, if only for a moment. When you stood, turning to thank him and introduce him to Sage and Amos, he had already retreated to his darkened home, the front door closing behind him without a word.
At first, you assumed he was just tired. You were tired, too. The fatigue ran down to your bones, heavy and cloying in a way that suggested you would carry this exhaustion for the rest of your life. And after a few days of struggling to get out of bed, helpless against the overwhelming weight of the still-fresh memories and guilt and pain, you managed to pull yourself out of bed and walk the few meters across the courtyard to Haymitch’s house.
You knocked once, and waited. No response. Not even a sound or a sign of movement. You knocked again and called his name. The windows were dark, the curtains drawn. If you didn’t have a view of his house from your own window, you might assume he wasn’t home. But you knew he hadn’t left his house since the day you both returned to Twelve. You knocked once more, louder, saying it was you, asking him to come to the door.
Finally, you heard some rustling, a muffled bump, and then his voice spitting curses, heavy and slurred. You knew he was drunk before the door even opened, and you could see the half-empty bottle in his hand.
“What do you want?” He demanded, the alcohol heavy on his breath, his gaze unfocused.
This was the Haymitch you heard about, the lonely drunk recluse, haunting an empty house. His tailored suits were gone, replaced by a wrinkled long-sleeve shirt spattered with stains, baggy trousers with rips at the hem, and bare feet, despite the cold bite of the stone floors, even in summer.
“I haven’t seen you in days.” You said, your voice smaller than you wanted it to be, “I wanted to talk.”
“Talk.” He scoffed, staggering forward and catching himself on the doorframe.
“You’re the only one who understands.” You insisted, your heart beginning to pound at the thought of your big house and your brother and sister and the memories. “I don’t…I don’t know how to do this.”
“Does it look like I do?” The question was sarcastic, but his tone was suddenly clearer, serious and laced with a deep sadness that scared you more than anything.
“You’re my mentor.”
“Not anymore. We’re both Victors now.” He lifted the bottle to you as if in a toast, before taking a long swig. “Bask in our glory.”
“Haymitch, please.”
He closed his eyes, a pained expression breaking through the drunken haze.
“Listen, kid,” he slurred, “I’m not…good. I didn’t even get you through the Games. You did that on your own. If there’s a way through this, you’ll find it. But not with me.”
“No, that’s not–”
“It’s better this way.” He talked over you, as if telling himself, his tone resolute, before shutting the door in your face.
You stood there, banging your fist against the wood, crying, screaming, begging him, cursing him, willing him to come back out, asking him not to leave you. But the door remained shut, the windows continued their blank stare, and Haymitch left you alone.
As your arm fell to your side, your hand throbbing from the repeated impact against the door, you let your breath steady, moving from desperate, shaking heaves to deep, calming cycles, in and out. When you turned back to your own house, you couldn’t bring yourself to go inside, to retreat to the dark reclusiveness of the last few days, to the malaise and memories.
Instead, you took a walk.
You walked from the Victor’s Village to the town, past the Justice Building and square where your entire life shifted on its axis, just a few weeks ago. You bypassed the merchant shops, though you finally have enough money to buy whatever you like, and walked further, to the Hob. Winding through the tables and around the people, you pretended not to notice the stares as you bought a loaf of bread, some tea, and some of Greasy Sae’s goat’s milk. You paid more than bargaining price for each, leaving with a nod of respect before continuing on to the Seam.
Nothing has changed, yet it looked completely different. The smoke curling above the hastily-built shacks, the hungry dogs barking, the dirty dark-haired children playing, are all achingly familiar and yet so far out of reach. You walked to your house, no longer yours, already occupied by a young family.
You knew the mother, she was a few years ahead of you in school, married a young miner two years ago. She greeted you with a nervous smile, holding her baby in her arms as her older child splashed his chubby hands in the laundry pail. She invited you in, but you insisted on helping hang the wet clothes for her instead, and offered her the loaf of bread and milk. She rejected the offer only once, before giving in to your charity.
“Thank you,” she said, “And thank you for all you did for that boy.”
You couldn’t reply, a lump of emotion blocking your throat as you thought of Felix and your failure. Instead you nodded, squeezed her hands, and continued on your way.
You snuck between the wires of the fence and into the forest, feeling lighter and freer with every breath of the clean, green-scented air. Not knowing, nor caring why, you broke into a run, letting the pound of your feet against the earth and the stinging brush of the leaves and branches focus your mind and your body. You slowed only as you broke through the treeline and found yourself at the lake. Heart still pounding and chest still heaving, you pulled off your shirt and trousers, kicked off your boots, and dove straight into the water.
The summer sun had left the surface of the water warm, but the lower depths were pleasantly, shockingly cool. You dove and swam and splashed and floated for what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been more than two, based on the movement of the sun. You let the water hold you, cleanse you, and carry away the pain, if only for a while. When you surfaced, laying on the riverbank and letting the sunlight dry your skin, you understood what you had to do.
You stopped by Aleen’s house on your way back to the Village. She welcomed you with a sad smile and a tight embrace. You told her what you wanted to do, and while she eyed you with motherly concern, the intensity of your resolve must have convinced her.
From then on, you were more than just a Victor. At least in Twelve, you were not just a symbol of the Capitol’s control. You were also a midwife’s apprentice. You had a job, a purpose, a goal: to help instead of hurt.
Your work, and your family kept you busy. You rose early and went to bed late, occupied with learning the names and effects of each herb, for contraception, for menstruation, for pregnancy, for postpartum. You began a garden of them, and employed girls from the Seam to give away bundles as needed in the Hob. You visited young women in the Seam and taught them how to avoid falling pregnant if they were not ready, helped Aleen monitor pregnant women, and assisted in three births in the months that passed since coming home. You still couldn’t sleep much, not without the nightmares, but you found it helped to escape to the lake and swim until your legs felt like they were made of water themselves. But as the weather turned colder, even that respite slipped away, and you could feel your rope unraveling again by the time the white card came from the Capitol and everything ground to a halt.
The Capitol requests the presence of
Amos L/N and Sage L/N
on the 63rd Annual Victory Tour.
Your first thought was to bring the card to Haymitch, and ask him what it meant, whether they would be in danger, what you were supposed to do, how to handle sudden frenzy of panic clouding your vision and squeezing your chest.
But then you remembered the door shutting in your face, and you knew you had to figure it out on your own.
Sage was excited by the news, if a little nervous to leave home for the first time. Her natural curiosity and adventurous spirit, at least, would ensure her enjoyment of the trip. Amos looked grave, even offended by the invitation. He asked if he had a choice, and when you said it would be best if he went, he rolled his eyes and disappeared into his room. You understood how he felt, though you knew better than to express it.
Now, as you prepare to leave your home again, Amos looks at Haymitch with the same sullen skepticism.
“What are you doing here?”
You would have asked the same question, had you not been busy staring at the man in the doorway, shocked. You’ve seen only glimpses of him since that fateful morning on the doorstep, and each was like seeing a ghost. His hair catching the light through a torn section of curtain, his bare feet stepping outside to carry in a box of liquor from the Hob, his rough, unshaven face cast in a look of perpetual misery.
But this man, the one standing before you now, clean-shaven and showered, dressed in a new suit that’s the same deep shade of green as your jumper and makes the cornflower blue of his eyes all the more striking, is a version of him you haven’t seen in months. He’s handsome. More handsome than you remember him being, when you first came face-to-face with him on the train. Maybe it’s because he’s smiling. He has a certain boyish charm when he smiles.
You hate it.
“I’m a part of the Princess of Panem’s entourage, don’t you know.” Haymitch leans one shoulder against the doorframe, and addresses Sage. “I like the one-sleeve look. Very distinct.”
“Really?” Sage re-examines her top, “You think so?”
“I thought you weren’t my mentor anymore.” You manage to find your voice, crossing your arms as you look at him.
“I’m not.” He holds your gaze, “But I am a Victor, and I believe it’s called a ‘Victory Tour.’”
You sigh, already too tired to pick a fight over this. You have enough to worry about, preparing to be under the scrutiny of all of Panem once more. You can just avoid Haymitch on the train– he probably won’t leave his room, anyway.
“Fine.” You sigh. “But we should get going.”
“She’s right, this is one train we don’t want to miss.” Haymitch straightens up and brushes off his suit jacket, “It’s a long, cold walk to the Capitol.”
~
Haymitch doesn’t remember his own Victory tour. Sure, there are bits and pieces, flashes of a crowd watching him, snapshots of speech cards in his hands, the sound of the applause, the rush of the train.
But mostly he remembers drinking.
He’d never had a drink before the Games, easy as alcohol was to get in Twelve– bottles of bathtub gin and moonshine were more accessible than a full meal. He remembers his first: a glass of champagne in the dressing room before his post-Games interview. He liked the way it made him warmer, his head fuzzier, less focused on the still-fresh pain of it all.
By the time winter rolled around that year, and he was getting back on that damned train, he was used to two or three bottles a week. Better to be out of his mind, than to have to live in his body. That was thirteen years ago, now. Not much has changed since then, yet it feels completely different.
This time, he’s not alone. She’s here.
He’s pretty sure she hates him now, but that’s fine. Better that she hates him than she expects anything from him. And anyway, no one could ever hate Haymitch as much as he hates himself.
He meant what he said to her, that day on the front stoop. He’s not good. He’s weak and drunk and helpless and haunted. She’s better off steering clear of him, staying far away from the fallout of his nuclear-level emotional damage.
Haymitch realized it on the way home from the Capitol. He was an idiot to think otherwise, a fool to believe he could be better, he could somehow change anything about this fucked up world to make it safe for her. While he held her, trying to soothe her tears and her panic and her pain, all he could think about was his mother. How he had wanted her to hold him, to help him, to heal him, but when he got home she was gone.
And it was his fault. All the years he spent alone, with his own nightmares and memories and phantom scars, and how none of it changed. The Games continued. Children died. The Capitol laughed. Haymitch drank. Over and over and over again. He thought about the cycle, the spiral, and how for one foolish moment he thought it would be different, because she won. She survived. And he wasn’t alone.
But he didn’t know how to help her. He couldn’t tell her it would be okay because it wouldn’t. The Games will happen again next year, more children will die, the Capitol will laugh, and Haymitch will drink. He couldn’t tell her it gets easier because it doesn’t. The pain will always be there, along with the memories, and the feeling of the scars that have long-since faded. Haymitch had no answers, no solutions, only a desperate, selfish desire to hold on to her, to cling to her out of an idiotic sense that she could heal him.
Haymitch is a selfish man. He doesn’t try to hide it. But when he saw her brother and her sister run to her, when he saw the look on her face as she held them close, he knew he had to let her go. He couldn’t drag her down with him, out of a blind hope that her strength could hold him too.
She almost broke his heart, when she came to him, pleading for help. He hid behind the bottle and a decade of practice being a drunken asshole, but on the inside he was cracking into pieces.
I want to help you. I want to take care of you. I want to make it all okay.
So he turned her away. He sat against the inside of the door afterwards, drinking down the rest of the bottle, punishing himself with the sounds of her crying.
How can I save you, if I don’t even want to save myself?
I was right to do it, he tells himself, watching through threadbare curtains as she pieces herself together. She’s better off, he repeats, wondering where she goes during the day with the midwife. I’m not good enough for her, he knows, trying to drink away the jealousy over the women who come and go, receiving her seemingly endless kindness.
But now, trapped in the liminal pattern of the Victory Tour, Haymitch begins to doubt his decision.
He knew she was rising early, from glimpses between tattered curtains, but now he’s not sure she even sleeps at all. When he stumbles out of his room for a refill from the bar cart in the middle of the night, he sees her.
She sits beneath the large window at the back of the train, staring out into the darkness behind them, watching the tracks disappearing into the night. She never notices him enter, but the sound of the glass clinking under his clumsy, drunken hands always startles her. She turns quickly on a gasp, eyes wide, body tensing as if preparing to spring, until she sees it’s him. The fear leaves her face, but the cold mask that settles in its place is somehow worse. She never says a word to him, she just turns back to the window.
Haymitch always lingers, swaying between staying and going, between reaching out and pulling back, between speaking and shutting the hell up. The suspension lasts longer and longer each night, his decision deferred as he remembers seeing her hands shaking as she reads from the speech cards each day, watching the clench of muscle in her jaw and shoulders, noticing the tension rising with every district, feeling her anxiety growing the closer they get to the Capitol.
He wonders, stupidly, for the first time, whether suffering together might have been better than suffering alone.
The answer comes sooner than expected.
He wakes one morning in time for breakfast, having only had half a bottle of wine the night before. He couldn’t bring himself to walk to the dining car and see her again and not know what to do with the feeling in his chest.
“Good morning,” Sage is the only one to greet Haymitch as he pulls out the chair next to her.
“Hey, kid.” He says, reaching out to ruffle her hair. She giggles, and he smirks, pleased that at least she still likes him.
Y/N and Amos both ignore Haymitch as he pours himself a cup of coffee and tosses a few pieces of bacon onto his plate. He eyes Y/N’s plate, still mostly full of fresh fruit and toast. She’s looking down into her teacup, watching her spoon as she stirs the liquid around and around and around.
He’s about to make a (probably ill-advised and unhelpful) comment when the dining car door opens and a Peacekeeper steps in.
“We’ll be arriving in District Three in an hour.”
Y/N looks up, and nods. “Thank you.”
The Peacekeeper steps out again, and the door whooshes shut behind him. Haymitch helps himself to a piece of bread, about to take a bite when Amos stabs at his egg, his fork scraping loudly against the plate.
“I don’t know why you thanked him.” Amos mutters.
“I was being polite.”
“Why?” Amos tosses his fork down with a clatter. “Peacekeepers aren’t polite.”
“That’s not the point–”
“What is the point, then?” He demands, “Because I don’t see any reason why you should be polite or nice to the people that killed Pa!”
“Amos, they didn’t—”
“No, not the ones on this train, but it’s all the same. The system killed Pa, just like they killed Felix. And Ava and Theo. They tried to kill you, too, and you’re just sitting there, doing whatever they say.”
In any other circumstance, Haymitch would be impressed, maybe even proud, of the kid’s revolutionary spirit. He’s hitting the nail right on the head— the system’s fucked.
But his little explosion is making Y/N’s eyes wide and glassy with barely-held back panic, her knuckles white from the grip she has on her napkin, and Haymitch knows she’s seeing Ava’s pale face and Felix’s lifeless eyes and Theo’s hand disappearing under the snow. He’s considering dragging Amos out of the dining car by the scruff of the neck and giving him a little reality check, when she stands, taking a shaking breath.
“You’re right.” She says, her voice quiet, but measured. “I have to go get ready.”
Haymitch watches her disappear through the door. He stares into his cup of coffee for a second before getting up to grab a bottle of whiskey, adding a healthy splash into the mug.
“It’s more complicated than that, and you know it.” Sage says, crossing her arms and glaring at her brother where he sits, sulking after his outburst. “The system killed all those people, and if she tries to challenge it on her own, they could kill her.”
Haymitch is actually impressed by that. For all her youthful behavior, he can see a glimmer of Y/N’s wisdom and perception in the younger girl’s expression. She understands more about this world than he gave her credit for.
Haymitch takes a big swig of his spiked coffee, and adds: “Or worse.”
Amos scoffs. “Worse than death?”
“Believe me, kid, compared to what the Capitol can do to you, death is a blessing.”
If either Amos or Sage have a response, Haymitch doesn’t wait to hear it. He grabs the whiskey bottle and heads for the door, hoping a few more swigs will get rid of the sinking sense of dread in his stomach.
~
Your hands are shaking. The words on the speech cards are blurred, though you’ve said only slightly varied versions of the same thing over and over in every district, you could probably recite it all from memory at this point.
You clear your throat, looking out at the assembled crowd, here to see the Victor, to stare and clap and cheer for all the horror and violence and inequity you have come to symbolize. Beyond the first few rows of spectators, Ava and Theo’s families stand on raised platforms, in front of large holographic projections of their dead children’s faces. Theo is smiling in his, and it makes you want to throw up. You look away, clearing your throat again and turning to take a sip of water from the glass set out on the podium.
“Ava Kettering and Theo Barnes,” you begin, hearing the extra air in your voice as you start to lose feeling in your fingers, “Represented District Three with honor and— and bravery.”
You falter, feeling the lack of meaning, the lack of truth in the words. You blink, clearing your vision and your throat, as you try to regain control of the speech.
And then you see it.
Spray painted on a wall, on the far side of the outdoor amphitheater, are the last words Ava spoke to you before she died– before you left her.
It’s not okay.
You inhale, and set the cards down, finding your hands have steadied as you begin to speak.
“But it’s more than that. They were more than brave, more than just symbols of this district. They were whole, complete people, though they were young, though I didn’t know them for very long, it was easy to see who they were. Ava was as kind as she was smart, and she was brilliant. She taught me how to make water filters out of nothing but sticks and sand, how to rig a slingshot, how to find and build and modify to survive. She was willing, despite the circumstances, to trust me, to be my friend, in a place where friends are fewer than enemies.”
You take a breath, gaining energy as you continue, feeling the fervor of truth flowing from your lips.
“Theo was bright and sweet and joyful, and so smart. He could read people like their intentions were written on their foreheads. His laughter was the greatest gift, the only thing that could make the worst experience of my life seem okay, even for a moment. I will forever feel the loss of his friendship, though I am beyond lucky to have been one of the few blessed to feel its warmth and light.”
There’s an energy building, not just within you, but within the crowd beyond. You can feel it, though they are silent, watching you, you can feel that you have everyone’s attention, they are with you, waiting for the next word.
“Ava and Theo were my friends. They were victors, in their own right. They didn’t die because they were weak or undeserving or foolish. They didn’t deserve to die, and they will not be remembered for their deaths. Short as their lives were, they will be remembered— I will remember them, for the way they lived.”
You end with a tone of finality, taking a small step back from the microphone. A beat of complete silence follows, and then the crowd erupts in uproarious applause, cheering and shouting and whistling loud enough — louder than any crowd earlier in the tour — that you’re startled by it. Still, you recover, waving and smiling politely as you make your way off the stage.
The receiving line passes in a daze, you shake hands and say hello, still surprised and slightly overwhelmed by the intensity of positivity and admiration you receive. You lose track of how many people comment on your speech— how moving, how right, how inspiring it was. You thank each of them, though you don’t understand what it all means — what a huge mistake you have made — until later.
Compared to the roar of the crowds, the train is eerily silent when you step back into the sleek compartment. Sage and Amos each slip away to their rooms, heads bowed, claiming to be tired. You feel a pang in your chest, not quite disappointment, more like dread, to have no reaction from your brother whatsoever. You didn’t give that speech for his benefit, but you thought after all his protesting he might be a little pleased with your effort at justice and resistance, instinctual and unplanned as it may have been.
The train starts to move, the familiar rumble and almost imperceptible sway of motion kicking up beneath your feet. Despite the day’s excitement, you find you have no appetite– just exhaustion. You make your way to the dining car, intending to sit for a while and rest under the back window, even though you know you won’t be able to sleep. But when you arrive, you find your seat already occupied.
Haymitch sits, bent over, his elbows resting on his knees, a more than half-empty bottle held loosely between his fingers. His head hangs low, his hair falling in front of his face.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He doesn’t look at you as he says it, but his voice is enough to send your stomach plummeting. The single question is all quiet anger, shaking betrayal, and profound devastation.
“You’re drunk.” You try to dismiss him, but it comes out weak and half-hearted because you feel it. The sense that everything has changed, and that it’s all your fault.
He lifts his head then, and the vacant, haunted look in his eyes sends a chill down your spine as he counters: “And you’ve just signed your family’s death sentences.”
“What?” You breathe.
“That little stunt you just pulled.” He chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, his expression twisting into a grimace. “I’m sure you thought you were really doing something back there, sticking it to the man, honoring your friends, making your dumbass little brother happy, but all you’ve done is get Sage and Amos killed.”
Your heart is hammering now, your fingers tingling as you feel the telltale panic beginning to rise in your chest, squeezing tight.
“The Capitol killed my mother. They killed my sister. They took away the only people in the world I cared about, just because they didn’t like the way I won the Games. What do you think they’re going to do to you? Now that you’ve publicly discredited the whole point of the Games, put a voice and a face to the unrest that everyone feels but is too scared to admit, and worst of all, got an entire district on your side? And not just any district, either. I mean, fuck, kid, you got District Three agreeing that the whole thing is fucked up.” He runs a hand through the too-long strands of hair. “The Capitol’s not going to let this go unpunished, but they know they can’t do anything to you. No, no, no, they can’t hurt Panem’s precious princess directly, but they can hurt the people she loves. They can, and they have, and they will.”
“Oh,” you feel sick, stumbling backwards to lean against the wall, feeling the train humming and vibrating beneath you, “Oh, God.”
“And here I was…thinking you were more than a pretty face.” He shakes his head, lifting the bottle and taking a long swig. “But I guess you’re not as smart as I thought.”
You’re not sure which it is – the sight of him hiding behind the liquor like always, his condescending and dismissive tone of voice, or the words themselves – but something breaks through the descending veil of fear and ignites anger in its stead. You straighten up, feeling the desperate rage simmering to a boil, propelling you resolutely forward. Haymitch looks up in surprise as you snatch the bottle from his hands and hurl it at the wall, feeling a small sense of satisfaction as the glass shatters and the acrid smell of alcohol fills your nostrils as it drips down the wall and soaks into the carpet.
“Fuck you.” You expected it to come out as a scream, but the words come out low and harsh as you stand above him, fists curling into the collar of his shirt, pulling him close enough to smell the liquor on his breath. “This is your fault as much as mine, and you know it. You can hide behind the snarky lecture and the scare tactics, but you’re as much to blame as I am. Yeah, I gave the speech, but I did it because I didn’t know any better. You didn’t teach me any better. You abandoned me when I needed you the most. You hid in your fucking house and left me to fend for myself even though you knew how this feels, and you knew the stakes, and you didn’t tell me. If I’m not as smart as you thought, then you must be the biggest fucking idiot in the world.”
He wrenches himself out of your grasp, and for a second you think he might try to tackle you until he hunches over an ice bucket on the floor just to your left, vomiting whatever other alcoholic concoctions he’d used to numb the pain today into the silver container. You step back, feeling an eerie sense of calm settle over you, waiting until his retching stops and he sits back, sweat shining on his brow and his gaze slightly more clear as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“They’ll want something, right?” You say, “I can bargain for Sage and Amos, if I offer them a different punishment.”
Haymitch speaks, his voice hoarse, all spite and sarcasm gone. “Snow won’t have them killed right away. They’re too popular after the tour. He’ll threaten you, probably with the Games. Having twins, and the younger siblings of a Victor reaped in the same year would be fodder for the Capitol.”
You heard whispers, in the haze of horror that were your last few days in the Capitol after the Games, about “arrangements” with Victors, “special privileges,” and “particular relationships.” At the time, you thought maybe it was just for those from the Careers, the most popular, the most accustomed to the traditions of the Capitol.
But now it’s all so glaringly, stupidly obvious. If you want to save your siblings, you’ll have to sacrifice yourself. Just in a different way than you thought you would.
“I’ll give him myself instead. I’m just a pretty face, right? I know– I’ve heard that Victors sometimes–”
“No.”
The force in his single word stops you short, your surprise melting into anger again.
“I don’t have a choice–”
“Yes, you do.” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “There is one other option. But you’re not going to like it.”
“What is it?”
He lowers his hand and opens his eyes, meeting your gaze with as serious and sober an expression you’ve seen on him in months.
“Marry me.”
~
Haymitch honestly didn’t think she would say yes. She probably shouldn’t have said yes for so many reasons. After he practically abandoned her, rejected her, and – she was right – got her into this mess in the first place, she has no real reason to trust him. He’d never felt anything like it– the sudden, utterly sickening realization of his guilt, until she shoved it in his face. If he couldn’t see the necessity of warning her about the Capitol’s mind games, if he couldn’t bring himself to get over his own self-pity to be the mentor she needed him to be, then how could she believe this plan would work at all?
And then there’s the matter of actually going through with it. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she said no simply on the basis that marrying him would be a worse punishment than whatever Snow could come up with. Haymitch knows, no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be good enough to make her happy, and he’s sure she knows it too.
But he has to try, has to offer something else, something of himself, something to help her, after he’s already done so much to hurt her. He can’t let her sacrifice herself, not again, not if there’s something he can do about it.
And after a moment of gut-wrenching silence as she studied him carefully, holding his gaze with that piercing perception he’d first noticed about her on this very same train, she nodded once, and said simply: “Okay.”
Now Haymitch stands in the wings of Caesar Flickerman’s stage, as sober as he’s been since the beginning of the tour (meaning he’s only had two drinks), preparing to lie to the entire nation. The collar of his suit feels too tight, cinched higher on his neck than the suits he usually wears– Chrys put him in this ridiculous green costume to match the swirling hues on Y/N’s dress, moving and flowing like a breeze blowing across a peaceful meadow.
Haymitch tries not to look at her directly, but at the same time tries to observe every possible indication of her mood. In the end, it just makes his head hurt, trying to figure her out from his periphery. He wants to say something, to…reassure her, but he’s never been the reassuring type.
Or the marrying type, but here we are.
He looks at her then, stupidly, because his mouth goes dry, his heart rate kicks up a notch, and his thoughts turn into an incomprehensible jumble. She’s always stunning, of course, but there’s something about seeing this impenetrable, public version of her, when he knows what she looks like without the hairpins and makeup, when she’s small and frightened and deeply human. There’s something about knowing, strong as she is, that she chose to trust him, that he will have the privilege of seeing this version of her– the real her, for the rest of his life.
He should be terrified. Well, he is terrified, but not of that, not of spending the rest of his life with her.
That’s not good.
He doesn’t have time to dwell on that…troubling thought, as music begins to play, and Flickerman takes the stage to thunderous applause. She’ll go out first, beginning with the Victory Interview as planned, before announcing the surprise engagement.
He sees her hands starting to shake as she smooths invisible wrinkles in her dress, and before Haymitch can think better of it, he takes her hands in his. She looks at him, eyes wide and uncertain.
“You already have them wrapped around your finger. Just be yourself. I’ll take care of the rest.” He squeezes her hands, his mouth moving ahead of his mind. “I’m a piece of shit, and you deserve better than what you’re getting. But I’ve been playing this game for thirteen years, and I might be an asshole and a drunk, but I’m not stupid. I promised I’d keep Amos and Sage safe, and I’m going to keep that promise. Do you trust me?”
She looks at him then, really looks at him, in a way that makes him want to squirm and run and hide because for her to see him suddenly feels like the worst possible idea and also the only thing he wants in the world.
After an eternity wrapped up in only a few seconds, she nods.
On stage, Flickerman announces her name, drawing out the syllables to an absurd length. She squeezes Haymitch’s hands once before letting go. As she turns, he watches her become someone else– a beautiful, idealized version of herself, waving to the audience as if there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
She meets Flickerman, taking his outstretched hands and turning her head to let him kiss her on one cheek and then the other, before letting him lead her to her chair where she sits, somehow managing to look both casual and elegant.
I’m going to look like an ass standing next to her.
“May I say, as always,” Flickerman effuses, “You look positively ethereal this evening.”
“Oh, please.” She laughs, “Caesar, as always, you’re too much.”
“No, really, isn’t she just a goddess?” Flickerman turns to the audience, cueing a rapturous round of applause. As the din fades, he turns back to her, “Well, we’d expect nothing less from our latest Victor. How did you enjoy your tour?”
“It was wonderful,” she smiles, “Truly, I felt so lucky to have the opportunity to not only see each of the Districts for the first time, but to meet so many people. I was welcomed warmly everywhere. It’s been just amazing.”
“Any favorites?”
“Don’t try to trap me now, Caesar,” she teases, “I couldn’t possibly pick. Though I think my sister and brother particularly enjoyed swimming in District Four.”
“Yes, dear Amos and Sage,” Flickerman touches a hand to his chest. “Now that you’ve had this wonderful experience, what’s next for you? Back to District Twelve?” Flickerman prompts, “I know I speak for many of us when I say I hope you’ll be gracing the Capitol with your presence at least a while longer. Am I right, folks?”
Another round of enthusiastic applause.
“Well, I am actually planning to stay for a while longer, for a…special event.”
A hush falls over the audience.
“Oh? Do tell.”
She gives an innocent smile. “This may come as a bit of a shock, but a good one, I hope.”
Haymitch smirks, undeniably proud of her ability to work the crowd, as murmurs of speculation and curiosity shift through the crowd.
“Don’t leave us in suspense, my dear, I’m on the edge of my seat!”
“I’m getting married.”
The theater erupts, gasps and exclamations and a smattering of applause, all eventually quieted as Flickerman speaks for the audience.
“My word! This is a surprise! Forgive me, my dear, but I did not realize you had a special someone. I knew you had an unending sea of admirers, of course, but which lucky man has managed to secure your love? Someone from back home, perhaps?”
“Well, sort of.” She looks nervous, and real or performance, it only serves to make her more appealing– no one can resist the blushing bride. “I think he could explain it all better than I can.”
“You’re saying your fiance is here tonight?”
“He is. And I believe you’ll recognize him.”
“My, my, this is juicy! I love it! Well, come on out, you lucky duck, whoever you are!” Flickerman gestures off-stage as the music begins to play and the lights shift, fixing a spotlight just ahead of where he stands in the wings.
Showtime, Abernathy.
A hush falls over the crowd like a blanket of anticipation, and the silence continues for a moment after he steps out into the light as the audience processes whom they’re seeing.
Anyone else might be daunted, might falter at the less-than-immediate reaction, but Haymitch knows he’s not the star of this show. He’s proven right when the polite applause at Flickerman’s announcement of his name rises to uproarious cheers when Haymitch strides across the stage, takes Y/N’s hand and lifts her to her feet, twirling her and dipping her.
She masks her surprise with a laugh, though he can see the hesitancy in her eyes as he holds her– it would be the perfect moment for a kiss, that would really sell the whole thing, but something vulnerable in her wide-eyed stare has Haymitch pulling back. He sets her back on her feet, but keeps an arm around her waist, waving and smiling at the audience.
“What an entrance!” Flickerman laughs, reaching out to shake Haymitch’s hand, “Haymitch Abernathy, this is a surprise.”
“For me as much as you, Caesar,” Haymitch says, “I can’t believe somebody like her would agree to marry somebody like me.”
“I love this, I love this, I love this! And I demand to be told everything.” Flickerman says, “Sit down, won’t you, Haymitch? We’ll have another chair brought in–”
“No need for that, Caesar.” Haymitch drops down into Y/N’s chair, pulling her with him so she lands on his lap with a surprised gasp. “We can share.”
“My goodness– this is a family show, Haymitch.” Flickerman scolds, but returns to his own chair.
Haymitch pulls Y/N closer, smirking, “What’s more family-friendly than a man holding his bride-to-be?”
“Oh, alright. Just behave yourselves.”
“That’ll be hard for him. He never behaves.” Y/N relaxes somewhat, draping an arm over his shoulders. Her fingertips brush the back of his ear, and he represses a shiver.
Haymitch leans closer to her, lowering his voice enough to seem secretive while still being heard by the microphones, “You would know about things that are hard for me, wouldn’t you?”
Gasps and giggles ripple through the audience, the energy in the room getting more rowdy, more excited.
“Alright, alright, don’t make me separate you.”
“Good luck,” Haymitch scoffs, “As long as she’ll have me, I’m not letting her go.”
The audience lets out an insipid coo, and Flickerman joins in before leaning forward with an expression of maniacal eagerness.
“Now, you two, you simply must tell us how all of…this happened!” Flickerman interrupts, gesturing to the pair of them.
“Well,” Haymitch looks at Y/N, and she nods for him to take the lead. He keeps his tone casual, but chooses his words carefully.
Afterall, the best lies all have pieces of the truth woven in.
“My part of the story is pretty short. I knew she was a fighter from the moment we met, and I admired that about her– no one can deny she’s got spirit. And, of course, I always thought she was beautiful, but I didn’t realize I’d fallen in love with her until I watched her go under the ice and heard the cannon. At that moment, when I thought I lost her, I realized I didn’t want to live without her.”
A somber hush falls over the audience at his words, and Flickerman is saying something in agreement, but all Haymitch can focus on is the feeling of Y/N’s hand squeezing his shoulder. It’s a reflexive gesture, as her whole body tenses, more than likely remembering that near-death moment.
Haymitch takes her hand in his and kisses her palm.
It’s for the cameras, he tells himself, though he can’t help the warmth of satisfaction he feels when she relaxes a bit in his arms.
“Now, how she managed to fall in love with me,” Haymitch smirks, “I still don’t quite believe.”
“Oh, stop.” Y/N swats at his shoulder. “I managed it very easily. Just…a little later than he did. After I went home to Twelve, I had a hard time adjusting to life as a Victor. It’s so different– a new house, a new life. Wonderful, of course, but a bit jarring. And Haymitch was there for me every step of the way. He helped me settle into the new house, he’s a hit with Amos and Sage – honestly, I think they like him more than they like me – but most of all, he makes me laugh. I really don’t know what I would have done without him.”
Y/N sells this false past with such tenderness even Haymitch finds himself believing it, in a way. He imagines an alternate version of the last few months, where he didn’t turn her away and shut her out. He imagines telling her about his mother and sister soon after she came home, imagines her telling him about whatever memories plague her at night, imagines teasing Amos until he gave in to laughing and spoiling Sage with trinkets from the Hob, imagines falling asleep at night with Y/N in his arms instead of a bottle in his hand.
The pain in his chest is expected, but this time it’s not regret. Instead, Haymitch yearns for that reality, the one he forfeit through selfish cowardice.
Can’t change the past, he swallows the thick lump in his throat, painting on a smile and taking her hand again, squeezing it lightly.
“She would have been just fine, but I would have been a wreck.” He holds her gaze, hoping she understands that this, at least, is not a lie: “She makes me better.”
She blinks, her gaze softening, and again, Haymitch is tempted to kiss her.
To sell the story. Obviously.
But the audience is already awwww-ing and Flickerman’s irritating voice breaks the moment, drawing Y/N’s attention away from Haymitch.
“Quite the whirlwind! When did you decide to get married, and why haven’t we heard about this absolute fairytale sooner?”
“We wanted to keep our relationship private at first.” Y/N takes the lead this time, “It’s not…typical, for a Victor to fall in love with her mentor. But when it’s right, you know. You know?”
Flickerman belts out that fake laugh of his that always makes Haymitch want to slam his head into a wall. “And who asked whom?”
“I asked her, of course.” Haymitch says, feigning indignance. “Just last night, on the train. I wanted to give her my mother’s ring, but it’s the wrong size, so there’s no fancy diamond yet.”
“It is a beautiful ring,” Y/N says, “But I think they’d rather hear what you said when you asked me.”
The audience laughs and claps in agreement.
“I’m getting there,” Haymitch tickles her side, making her squirm and the audience laugh, “We were having dinner on the train from District Three, and I pretended to drop my fork on the floor. She bent down to help me grab it, and when she sat back up, there I was on one knee with the ring. And I said–” he looks at her again, finding those beautiful eyes looking back, “I’m already the luckiest man in the world because you love me. You’re the strongest, smartest, most incredible woman I’ve ever met. And beautiful, of course. Can’t forget that. And if you’ll marry me, I will happily spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.”
Haymitch could swear he hears a few sniffles out in the audience, but he’s immediately distracted by her hand lifting to his cheek, her gentle gaze locking him in place.
“And I said yes.”
Before he fully processes what’s happening, she leans forward and kisses him. It’s nothing scandalous, just the soft press of her lips to his, but Haymitch feels a zip of electricity down his spine. She pulls back before he can fully react, keeping the kiss light and chaste.
Haymitch, however, having suddenly forgotten where they are and what they’re doing, doesn’t think, he just threads his fingers through her hair, surely ruining the careful styling, and kisses her back. Only he hears her inhale of surprise, her lips parting enough for him to deepen the kiss, her hands falling to his shoulders, fingers digging into his shirt to pull herself minutely closer.
The audience begins whooping and cheering and the kiss only ends when Haymitch can’t keep the smile from his face.
Eat your hearts out, you Capitol fucks. She’s mine.
~
You don’t remember the wedding.
You remember everything leading up to the ceremony. You remember the descent of Chrys and their minions to primp and prime and style and shine you until you felt like a children’s doll dressed up for an elaborate tea party. You remember the dress, so white you were afraid to move or touch or drink anything for fear of staining or smudging the fabric. It was long and perfectly tailored to fit and drape and flow in all the right places, topped off with a finely woven lace veil, fixed to the crown of your head by a white headband dotted with tiny twinkling diamonds, and flowing down to the middle of your back. You remember the shoes– possibly the most uncomfortable piece of clothing you’ve ever worn in your life, pinched tight and elevating your heels two inches higher than you’re confident walking in. You practiced with them, wincing as blisters rubbed themselves into existence on the backs of your ankles, until you could pace the length of your Capitol dressing room without wobbling.
You remember asking someone to find Amos and Sage, and sitting them down for a talk in the few minutes that remained before you sold yourself off to save them.
“I haven’t been honest with you two.” You began, “I didn’t want to lie, but I told myself– I believed I was protecting you by hiding the truth. But I’m going to be lying to the world for the rest of my life, and I don’t want to lie to you two anymore. It’s not fair to me, and it’s especially unfair to you.”
You took Sage’s hand in your right and Amos’ in your left.
“I’m marrying Haymitch to keep you two safe. They didn’t like the speech I gave in District Three. It was true, and it was how I felt, but the truth makes the Capitol look bad. The truth takes away their power. They were going to kill you to punish me. Maybe stage an accident back in Twelve, or more likely rig the Reaping in a few months so you both would be tributes. Either way, you would die.”
Sage looks like she’s going to cry, and Amos looks like he wants to hit something– you wouldn’t blame him if that something was you.
“But I’m not going to let that happen. I’m giving them something else. Haymitch and I are putting on a show, telling them a love story that reinforces what the Capitol wants people to think: the Games are good, and the Capitol has all the power.”
“You’re giving up.” Amos pulled his hand away from yours, anger hard in his tone as he crossed his arms.
“No, she’s not.” Sage argued before you could, squeezing your hand. “She’s being smart.”
“How is giving the Capitol what it wants considered smart?”
“It’s not that simple, idiot.” Sage shook her head. “The Capitol controls practically everything– making a big speech, yeah it’s brave, but it’s just words. And if it would get us killed just for some moral statement, what’s the point? What good does that do? If you bothered to pay attention, you’d see that what she does is more important. Back home, helping the women in Twelve, working behind the scenes.”
Amos screwed his mouth shut, humbled and reluctantly taking in the logic of his sister’s words.
“In the Capitol, in public, I have to play the part. But I promise, when the spotlight turns away, I’m going to do everything I can to help the people who need it. And my first priority has always been, and always will be keeping you two safe, alive, and healthy. No matter what I have to do to make that happen, I will do it.”
Including marrying an alcoholic almost ten years older than you who, until a few days ago, hadn’t seemed to want anything to do with you.
You don’t remember the ceremony. You know it happened– you’ll see replays of the footage for the rest of your life. That’s how you know you didn’t trip on your heels or say the wrong thing, or accidentally mention that you were a fraud and a liar. Haymitch dipped you and you shared a sweet, chaste kiss, and he led you out with his hand in yours while hundreds of people you didn’t know cheered and threw confetti. In the video, you’re smiling and laughing, like it’s not one of the worst days of your life.
In your memories, it’s like you were walking down the aisle and then blinked and found yourself sitting on the too-large bed with too-many pillows in the master bedroom of the honeymoon suite you and Haymitch will stay in tonight before boarding the train back to Twelve tomorrow.
You’re looking down at your hands. There’s a ring on your left hand that wasn’t there before. It catches the light, glinting gold as you turn your palm over.
You’re still wearing your wedding dress. You can’t see your feet beneath the fabric, and the bodice is too stiff for you to relax your spine. Beginning to feel as though you can’t breathe, you stumble to your feet, fingers searching for a zipper or a button or a bow to untie– anything to get you out of this horrible white prison.
Gasping, your fingers find a zipper at the side of the gown. You pull at it, but it snags on the fabric, stopping halfway down your ribs. Tears blur your vision and begin falling down your face as you yank and tug to no avail.
You kick off those awful shoes in a desperate movement that leaves you off-balance, and you catch yourself on the vanity table before you fall over completely, the wood rattling against the wall.
“Hey, what–” a door opens, and you don’t register Haymitch’s voice until he’s in front of you, grabbing your hands in his, “What are you doing? Hey– it’s okay, it’s okay. Breathe. What do you need?”
“Get this off,” You try to pull your hands free, but he holds them tighter. “I can’t– I can’t breathe.”
“Okay, okay,” He says, “Let me– just– hold still, would you? Let me do it.”
You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling at the roots in desperate panic as he tries the zipper once before simply taking handfuls of fabric and ripping the dress apart.
Air floods back into your lungs, and you slump forward, drawing in a gasping breath. Haymitch steadies you, one arm at your waist, the other rubbing your back.
“There you go. You’re okay. I got you, angel. Just breathe.”
After a few cycles of breath, your vision and mind clear, and you straighten up.
“Take it slow.” Haymitch says, guiding you to sit back down on the bed, his tone firm but kind. “Here, just– actually listen to me this time. Stay there for a minute.”
He steps away to root around in an absurd set of drawers meant to look like it’s made of gold, and returns with a folded set of pajamas.
“Do you need–”
“I can do it.” You say, taking the clothes with more aggression than you intend– feeling vulnerable and tired and so very, very scared of the unknown territory you’ve entered.
“Okay. Got it.” Haymitch holds his hands up in surrender, taking a few steps back.
You stare at each other for a beat before you gesture at him, “Turn around.”
He scoffs, but pivots on his heel. “I’ve seen a naked woman before, you know.”
“Good for you.” You stand, shucking off the dress and leaving it in a pile on the floor before pulling on the pajamas. “You can turn around again.”
He inhales as he turns, as if preparing to speak, but stops short. He stares, a small smile lifting at the corner of his lips.
“What?” You cross your arms.
“Sorry– just,” he shrugs, “You look like you again.”
You really look at him for the first time since he came into the room, taking in the bowtie hanging undone in his equally disheveled collar, the shirt unbuttoned down to the top of his chest, untucked from his pants and already wrinkled. You find yourself fighting a small smile of your own.
“So do you.”
Haymitch looks down at himself and then holds out his arms, as if presenting himself to a panel of judges. “In all my glory.”
As he lowers his arms again, you see the golden glint of his own ring, matching the one on your finger. It feels surreal– to be married, and yet not to be married. For a fact to also be a lie. The man in front of you is your husband, and somehow also a stranger.
He’s not the Haymitch you met almost a year ago, and he’s certainly not the Haymitch you saw back in Twelve. He’s…something else. Something you’re not sure is real, or for show.
“Listen,” he clears his throat, “I’ll sleep on the couch in the other room tonight– I just wanted to talk first. About…how we’re going to do this.”
Your stomach twists, but you sit down on the bed and pat the blanket next to you. Haymitch sits down in the offered space, tucking one leg underneath the other so he can turn to look at you.
“When we’re in public, we’ll have to keep up appearances. Even in Twelve. The Peacekeepers will be watching, and reporting back to the Capitol.”
“By ‘keep up appearances,’ you mean…”
“Being obnoxious lovebirds– holding hands, laughing, we’ll have to kiss occasionally or people will get suspicious.”
You remember kissing him during the engagement interview– the adrenaline kicking in as you did it without thinking, the way your stomach flipped when he held you and kissed you back.
You swallow thickly. “Okay. Yeah, that’s fine.”
“We don’t have to go further than that. Ever. We’ll have to live in the same house, but we don’t have to share a bed, or a bedroom, or anything like that.”
“You should move into my house.” You say, managing a small smile, “There’s no way in hell I’m moving into your shithole.”
“Yeah, fair enough.” Haymitch chuckles, and then sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m not giving up drinking, though. I’ll bathe more and clean up and all that shit, but I won’t stop drinking.”
You take a deep breath. “Okay. But if you ever get violent with me, or with Amos and Sage–”
“I’ll kill myself.” He says, and you’re taken aback by the severity of his tone. “I mean it. I would never forgive myself if I did that to you. To any of you. The booze…it’s more about forgetting, than anything else. It’s the only way for me not to feel it all, you know?”
“No. I don’t know.” You look down at your hands again, feeling the weight of months of sleepless nights heavy in your bones. “I haven’t stopped feeling everything since I came back.”
Haymitch reaches for your hand, and you look up at his face to avoid the matching shine of your rings, and the way it makes your chest feel tight.
“You can talk to me about it, if you want.” He says. “I should’ve– fuck, I should have been there for you before. But I– I’m a piece of shit. You know that. And now you’re stuck with me. I just– I want us to be friends. Partners. We’re in this game for life now, together, and I know I’m far from the best pick, but I want to hold up my end of the deal, here.”
You know you shouldn’t trust him. You shouldn’t take him at his word. He left you in the lurch once, he’ll probably do it again, and again, and again. But there’s something in his eyes, something about the way he’s looking at you– like you’re a higher being and he’s a mere supplicant, that makes you believe him. And, sends a tug of understanding through your heart.
“You’re not the best pick, but neither am I.”
“Shut up–”
“I’m not. Haymitch, I’m not perfect. I’m not ‘Panem’s Princess.’ I’m not any of that. I’m human. You’re human. We’re both broken. We’re both lost. We’re both scared.” Your voice catches in your throat, “But we know what the other one’s been through. We understand each other– or, we can learn to. I want– I want to understand you, and I want you to understand me.”
Haymitch lifts your hand to his mouth, and your breath stalls in your chest as he holds your gaze and presses a kiss to the ring on your finger.
“I think we can manage that,” he says, giving you a cheeky smile. “We only have the rest of our lives together.”
~
When Haymitch suggested getting married, he had no idea he would fall in love with his wife.
If he’s being entirely honest with himself (which he never is), he fell in love with her long before the wedding. But afterwards, Haymitch finds he can no longer ignore or deny those horrible, awful, utterly unwanted feelings of love.
The realization comes on slowly in the weeks following the wedding, as Haymitch and Y/N grow accustomed to their new living situation. The dire truth of the situation doesn’t sink in right away. The initial distractions of moving his few belongings into her house, fumbling and bumping into each other as spaces and routines were shared and reshaped masks the deep-seeded change taking hold within him.
At first, he tries to deny how he feels lighter when she’s in the room; how her laugh is the most rare and beautiful sound, more addictive than any Capitol drug; how he sleeps on the sofa most nights, not because he’s too drunk to climb the stairs to his own bed, but because the cushions smell like her; how his fingers itch with the urge to hold her.
Haymitch only realizes what’s happened when it’s already too late. He’s in love with her. That’s the simple truth– no way around it, no way to undo it, no way to move on from it.
On the one hand, he’s livid with himself. Love only causes pain, love gets you hurt– he’s learned that lesson before. Caring about someone, needing someone, it only leads to loss, grief, and loneliness. Why didn’t he put a stop to this before it was too late?
On the other hand, he knows it was inevitable. Who, in his position, wouldn’t fall in love with her? What person, when faced with her strength, her beauty, her resilience, her forgiveness, her trust, could possibly resist? When he thinks about it, really thinks about it, Haymitch is almost certain he fell in love with her the first time she met his gaze, defiant and perceptive and bright. He was doomed from the start.
He wants to be upset about it– to get angry or forlorn or have any kind of dramatic reaction at all. Because she’ll never love him. No one could ever love him, broken and drunk and lost as he is, let alone someone like her. She’ll never love him, and he could never deserve her, anyway.
And yet, they are married. He is hers until death do they part. She’s his wife, and he’s her husband. It is a fact, a legally binding truth. Somehow, he’s stumbled his way into sharing his home, his meals, his life with her. She will never love him, but he has the privilege and the ability to love her for the rest of his life.
That doesn’t sound so bad, he thinks to himself, late into the night, nursing a glass of whiskey. He’s so deep in his thoughts that he almost doesn’t hear the scream. But he does hear it. Her scream.
And then nothing matters except for her. Not his own self-hatred or hesitation, not stopping to put on shoes or to redo the buttons on his shirt, not the glass of whiskey left spilled and broken on the floor. Nothing, except taking the stairs two at a time and sprinting down the hall and shoving open the door to her room without a knock or a pause for breath.
She’s in bed, awake, seemingly unhurt, but her eyes are wide and afraid in the light from the hallway. He can hear the panic of her breathing, quick and shallow.
“Nightmare?”
She nods, curling into herself, her nose buried between her knees where they’re tucked against her chest.
The door creaks shut behind him, and the room goes dark. In the shadows, his love for her feels bigger, harder to contain, harder to hide.
“Want me to go?”
“No,” her voice is small, but her answer is quick.
“Okay,” he agrees, his voice as soft as his footsteps against the carpet as he moves closer.
Haymitch intends to sit on the floor by her bed, talk her through the panic, and probably pass out on the carpet after she falls back asleep. But she shuffles back towards the wall, making room for him on the mattress. He pauses.
He’s not sure whether he’s supposed to sit when she pulls back the blanket and says his name with a hitch in her breath and then he’s lying down and wrapping her in his arms without a second thought.
“I’m here.” He presses the words into her hair, breathing in the familiar smell of her, “You’re safe. It was just a dream.”
She doesn’t sob, like that day in the hospital, but he can feel her tears sliding down the skin of his chest from where her head is tucked beneath his chin.
“I’m sorry.” The words rush out on a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll dry off.”
She exhales in a way that’s almost a laugh, and presses herself closer, her arm slipping under his open shirt and around his back, her skin warm and soft against his as she holds him. He tries not to think about how nice it feels.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I was back there, at the end,” her voice is quiet, raw with emotion, “Under the water.”
Haymitch tries not to react, just to listen, but his body stiffens and his arms hold her just a bit closer. He thinks about how, when he watched her go under the ice, all he wanted to do was dive in after her and pull her out. He couldn’t save her then, but at least he can hold her now.
“I was alone. But I couldn’t get out, the water froze over again and I couldn’t break through. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe. It was just…panic.”
“It wasn’t real. Just a dream. You’re alright now.” He says, and he’s not sure who he’s reassuring more, her or himself. “Well, you’re stuck married to me for the rest of your life, but you’re safe and alive, at least.”
She lets out another half-laugh, and he feels far too proud of himself. “At least there’s that.”
Silence settles between them for a few moments, the only sound is the soft brush of his hand running up and down her back.
“Thank you.” Her voice is soft and a little sleepy, her breathing slower and deeper.
He risks pressing his lips to the top of her head again as he quietly speaks: “Anytime, angel.”
He means it– he probably shouldn’t, for the sake of boundaries and all that bullshit, but he does mean it. And he intends to leave, after he’s sure she’s fallen asleep again. But it’s late, and she’s soft and warm and her arms are still wrapped around him, and leaving would only risk waking her up anyway, so Haymitch allows himself to drift off beside her. Just this once.
Until it happens again a few nights later.
He stays up late, as usual. Obviously, he hopes she’ll have a peaceful night’s sleep, but he’s not surprised when he hears another cry break through the quiet of the night.
He leaves his glass on the table this time, and makes his way to her room. She’s sitting up this time, her legs swung over the side of the bed and her head in her hands when he walks in. She looks up at the sound of the door, her shoulders relaxing when she sees it’s him.
“Haymitch, I’m–”
“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry.” He shuts the door and moves closer. “Besides, I was awake anyway. Couldn’t sleep.”
Nice cover, jackass. Real convincing.
“What was it this time?” He asks, sitting down next to her.
“An old nightmare, one I used to have before the Games, after Pa was killed.” She rubs her fingers at the bridge of her nose, by the corners of each eye, “I come home and Amos and Sage are gone. Sometimes they’ve been taken, sometimes they just disappear, but every time I’m looking and calling out for them, I can’t find them.”
Haymitch lifts his hand to the back of her neck, gently massaging his fingers along the base of her skull. He’s not surprised, but still dismayed at the tension he can feel in her muscles. She drops her hands from her face, her shoulders relax minutely, and she sighs.
“Do you want to go check on them?” He asks, still massaging her neck.
“No, it’s okay. I’m sure they’re fine.” She smiles ruefully, “I’ve spent more than enough time standing over their beds watching them breathe. And I’m not sure that’s particularly healthy, especially considering I’m their sister and not their mother.”
“Probably better not to check on Amos after dark, anyway,” Haymitch agrees, “I remember what it was like to be his age.”
She lets out a surprised laugh, and then elbows him. “That’s disgusting.”
Haymitch chuckles, moving his hand from her neck to shrug in surrender. “That’s biology.”
She scoffs, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face as she lifts her own hand to rub at the back of her neck.
“Thanks,” she says, looking slightly sheepish, “I’ve been feeling like an old lady with how much my neck hurts all the time.”
“I’d say the Games age you, but you were older than your age before you even went into that arena.”
“True.” She agrees. “But I wasn’t as tense before.”
“Come here,” It scares him how easily he does it– shifts backwards so his back is against the wall, and opens himself to her. “I can’t make the nightmares stop, or get us out of this, or much of anything really, but I can help with this.”
“Haymitch, you don’t have to–”
“I don’t do things I don’t want to do.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t argue or bring up the obvious contradicting evidence to his statement. Instead, she gets that endearingly sheepish look on her face again, and moves to sit in front of him. He places his hands on her shoulders, and begins gently working the knots of tension out of her muscles. She sighs, already starting to relax. He shifts to the back of her neck again, and she lets out a low noise of pleasure.
“Oh, right there,” she murmurs.
For the first time since entering her room, he’s suddenly aware of himself– just as he feels the blood from his head rushing southward. A fantasy flashes through his mind, of hearing her say those same words as his hands roam across her skin, only under very different circumstances.
Fuck. Think about broken glass, nails on the chalkboard, the smell of the Seam’s rubbish heap in the summer.
It works, but he still hates himself. He focuses on the reality of his task– to make her feel better. He’s not here to indulge whatever perverted one-sided feelings he’s developed over the last few weeks. It’s just…hard to focus. Even though he’s far from drunk, even though he doesn’t normally sleep until the early hours of the morning.
And when she drifts off, slumping slowly back against him, he allows himself to hold her. He moves slowly, gently keeping his arms around her body as he guides her to lie down. He plans to let go, he really does, until she stirs and turns over, wrapping her arm around him. And again, he falls asleep with her curled against him.
They don’t talk about it the next day, though he notices a certain level of…comfort between them. When she leaves to visit Aleen, he’s sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee. As she passes, she squeezes his shoulder gently, telling him she’ll be back in time for dinner. It’s a casual, thoughtless gesture, executed as naturally as if she does it every day. As if they were a normal couple, separating for their jobs during the day– only, her job is helping keep people healthy and alive and his job is drinking and thinking about her all day.
And when the sun has long-since set, and Sage and Amos have gone to bed while Y/N prepares for sleep. Haymitch finds himself bringing his glass of whiskey upstairs to his room instead of sitting on the couch– sitting by the window, looking out at the clouds, trying not to think about the few steps between his door and hers.
He wonders whether he should stay up, waiting for her to call out, and decides it’s better to check on her. He drains his glass before walking to the door, only to find her standing on the other side with her hand raised to knock. He catches himself on the doorframe meeting her wide, surprised gaze.
“I was just going to check on you.” He says, taking in her soft appearance, her pajamas and bare feet. “Are you alright? I didn’t hear–”
“No, I’m fine,” she looks embarrassed now, not meeting his gaze, “I just– I wondered if I could sleep in here tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Actually, nevermind,” she shakes her head, starting to turn away, “You probably want to be alone, I’m sorry–”
He catches her wrist, stopping her before she can retreat. “I don’t mind.”
“Really?” She looks at him again, searching his face, and for a second he’s worried she’ll see just how much he doesn’t mind.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” He goes for a nonchalant approach, “It’s just a bed, sweetheart, don’t overthink it.”
She looks embarrassed again, and he feels a stab of guilt.
You’re an idiot. And an asshole.
“Come on,” he says, softer this time as he tugs lightly at her wrist, “You need your beauty sleep.”
She rolls her eyes, but lets him lead her inside, muttering, “Look who’s talking.”
“Hey.” He lets go of her hand to gesture to himself– in all his wrinkled-shirt, five o’clock shadow glory, “I work hard to achieve this level of disheveled.”
“Oh, I know.” She says, smiling as she sits on the edge of his bed, “Your commitment is very impressive.”
Suddenly, he feels nervous, with her smiling at him, in his bed. He swallows thickly and pats his hands against his sides, unsure how to proceed.
“Do you have a side you usually sleep on?” She asks.
“No, I tend to kind of…sprawl.” She chuckles, and he feels a smile tugging at his lips. “Pick whatever side you want. I’ll be right back.”
He disappears into the small en-suite bathroom, and commences with brushing his teeth, splashing water on his face, and spraying just the tiniest bit of cologne on his neck. It occurs to him that he’s slept next to her twice before without having done any of this beforehand, and she didn’t seem to mind, but this feels…different. The other nights were borne out of necessity. This is a choice.
His heartbeat speeds up a tick. She chose this. To come to him, to sleep with him.
Not like that.
To sleep next to him. Either way, she must find some comfort, some safety with him. Which means he must be doing something right.
He returns to the room feeling more confident and sees she’s tucked herself in under the covers on the left side of the bed, her eyes already closed. He turns off the few lights he’d left on and then pads over to the right side, lifting the covers and lying down.
He lays flat on his back at first, stiff as a board. The bed is too small to leave space between their bodies, and his arm presses against hers. She shifts, rolling onto her side to face him, and he can feel the gentle warmth of her breath.
“Do you want me to…” He’s not sure how to phrase it, reaching for her with his opposite arm.
“Yes,” she whispers, shuffling closer, “Please.”
He rolls over as she moves to meet him, and he wraps his arms around her, letting her head rest against his chest, tucked under his chin.
“Do you still have nightmares?” She asks, “Of your games?”
He runs his hand along her spine, trying (for once) to choose his words carefully.
“Yes and no.”
She shifts, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “What do you mean?”
Overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kiss her, he forces his gaze up to the ceiling instead.
“I don’t remember my dreams. I only wake up with a sense of the feelings in the dream, not the dream itself. I know I have them, and I know they’re usually bad because I always wake up feeling shitty.”
“Are you sure it’s not just the hangover?”
He lets out a bark of surprised laughter, glancing down to see her smiling a little cheeky smile. He looks back up at the ceiling again, the overwhelming urge only growing stronger. “Smartass.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Touche.” He chuckles, and then sighs, daring to open up further. “I’m glad I don’t remember my dreams. It’s hard enough to forget my life when I’m awake.”
“Your family?”
“And the Games.” He says, “I don’t want you to worry before you have to, but one of the biggest ways the Capitol keeps control over Victors is by turning us into mentors. Making us relive it all every year, over and over. They give us the illusion that we can help, we can teach the tributes how to win, or charm enough sponsors to keep them alive, but the truth is, there’s nothing we can do.”
“You helped me survive.”
“No, I didn’t.” He thinks about watching her, running through the snow, protecting others, facing off against Careers, “That was all you, angel.”
“And Felix, Ava, and Theo.” Her voice is quiet, but steady. “I wouldn’t have made it without them. I wouldn’t have wanted to.”
He decides not to point out that she would have fought to her last breath to get back to Amos and Sage. Instead, he finds himself speaking aloud thoughts which have never left the depths of his mind.
“I wouldn’t have survived my Games without Maysilee.”
“Did you know her before the Reaping?”
“I knew who she was. We were in school together, but she lived in town and I grew up in the Seam. Maybe she knew me as the smart-mouthed kid with the dirty face, but I doubt she knew my name before they read it out.” He tries to ease the lump rising in his throat with a half-hearted chuckle. “She seemed so…uptight, so proper, when you met her, but she was even more vulgar than me when you got to know her. She was strong, principled, like you. She deserved to win. She would have been a better mentor to you.”
“Hey,” Y/N shifts to sit up slightly, leaning on her elbow, “You weren’t a bad mentor. You made a mistake. So did I. And we fixed– we’re trying to fix it together.”
Haymitch doesn’t respond. He can’t manage to get rid of that stupid lump in his throat this time.
“Besides,” she continues, settling back down with her head on his shoulder, “I doubt the Capitol would have been in favor of me and Maysilee getting married.”
He laughs, and pulls her closer, unable to express how deeply he feels the relief and comfort she provides.
She falls asleep soon after, her body relaxing so that her face tilts up towards him. He studies her for a moment in the silvery darkness, wishing he could ensure this peacefulness for her always. He brushes a kiss to her forehead and then settles down to sleep himself.
He wakes some time later, feeling her begin to toss and turn in the midst of a nightmare. Haymitch wraps his arms around her, holding her tight, trying to soothe her distress.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs, running his hand over her back, “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m right here.”
She settles eventually, without once waking up, and he feels an aching warmth spreading through his chest as he looks at her expression turning peaceful once again. He can’t say it aloud, he won’t, but he allows himself the thought, just once, as he holds her close.
I love you.
In the morning, he wakes up feeling…good. Hungover, sure, but lighter, calmer, and better than he has in a while. He’s alone– but she left sunlight and the smell of her behind. And she comes back to his room that night, and the one after that, and the next, until they settle into a routine which becomes far too comfortable far too fast.
They always lay together for a while, talking. She’ll tell him about her day, about what’s going on in the district, which Peacekeepers seem sympathetic, which she avoids, who’s expecting, who’s sick, who’s just lost a father or a brother or a son in the mines. He’ll tell her about the little harmless secrets Sage shares with him, about the girl she likes at school, about how he managed to get Amos to laugh (okay, it was more of an amused scoff, but still). She’ll describe her nightmares when they wake her in the middle of the night, and he’ll tell her stories of his mother and his sister and how they would have loved her and been completely unsurprised that the only way he could get someone like her to marry him would be through fraud. Eventually, she’ll relax and drift off and he’ll allow himself a few moments to fully and truly feel his love for her until he falls asleep beside her.
He finds himself waiting, longing, until she knocks on his door and he can wrap her up in his arms and shut out the world and the memories and the pain for a few hours. In those hours, he can pretend it’s real– their marriage, their vows of love and care. He can hold her and love her and wonder, if only for a few moments, whether it could be real, someday. Haymitch holds onto those nights, to the domesticity and the comfort and the quiet private truth of it all, for as long as he can.
But then the Games arrive. And everything falls apart.
Summary: Thirteen years after the second Quarter Quell, District Twelve has yet to see another Victor, and Haymitch has yet to see a reason to smile. That is until your name is drawn, just a week before your nineteenth birthday, and both your lives change forever.
Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, alcoholism
You read once that children used to look forward to summer. In the old world, the one that came before Panem and the war between the Capitol and the Districts, summer brought warmth and fun and freedom and time to grow and play. The lengthening daylight, the melting snow, the fields and flowers growing all meant hope.
But as long as you’ve been alive, summer has always meant death.
Because when summer comes, so does the Reaping. And the Games inevitably follow.
You woke on the morning of the Reaping for the 63rd Hunger Games with a knot of dread in your stomach that has only grown heavier and heavier, settling like a rock as you stand in the bright sunshine, awaiting the names of the tributes.
Ahead of you, standing with the younger girls, your sister Sage turns to look at you. You offer as much of a smile as you can manage, giving her a nod of encouragement.
It’s her first Reaping, along with her twin brother, Amos. You turn to find him with the boys, though he looks resolutely ahead at the stage where the mayor recites the history of the Games.
Seeing them apart, separated, on the precipice of something so horrible, leaves an ache in your chest. They’ve always been close, but lately it’s rare to see them apart, their hands held tight together, finding strength in each other. They’ve been that way since Pa died during the cold months.
Because winter means death, too.
Sickness and starvation creeping in, without the meager crops of the warm seasons, was what took Ma first. She was still weak after Sage came into the world the wrong way around, tearing out after Amos and leaving Ma a ghost before she was even gone.
Twelve years later, Pa disappeared in the blink of an eye, executed for trying to sell contraband to the wrong sort of Peacekeeper. One minute he was there, kissing your head as he left to check his game traps in the woods, and then he was gone.
Aleen came in his place, with the sad news and a promise to look in on you. To help, as much as she could.
“It’s okay.” You mouth to Sage now, as much for yourself as for her. “You’re gonna be okay.”
The odds are as much in her favor as they can be. Both she and Amos only have their names written once this first year. Yours is written thirty-four times after five years of applying for tesserae for your family. You just have to survive the odds stacked against you, just this last year, before you’ll be free.
Free to apprentice with Aleen, to become a badly needed second midwife for Twelve, to have a chance at supporting your family with more than just the scraps you scavenge and trade in the Hob. A chance to help the women of your district, like you couldn’t help your mother.
Your heart pounds and the knot of dread twists even tighter as Mayor Undersee steps to the side and reaches into the glass bowl. You hope and you pray, for the name to be anyone’s but your sister.
“The female tribute from District Twelve is,” he unfolds the paper, “Y/N L/N.”
The breath stalls in your chest and the world goes silent, until you hear your sister’s voice.
“No.” She warbles, small and desperate.
The sound has your feet moving, instinctively pressing closer. You stumble and shuffle past the others, feeling the cold mix of relief and pity in their gazes.
“It’s okay,” you say aloud, meeting her wide-eyed, terrified gaze as you pass, “It’s okay.”
This is not the first time you’ve had to look your baby sister in the eye and tell her what you wish someone would tell you. This is not the first time you’ve had to lie to protect her.
You walk up the steps to the stage, forcing your gaze to your feet to keep from tripping as the sight of your own shocked, terrified expression on the large projector screen overwhelms you.
As you take your place next to the mayor, you see Amos, his expression pinched and his hands clenched in the way that means he’s trying not to cry. He’s done that since he was four.
You take a breath, quick and shallow, the knot of dread releasing into nausea as the mayor reaches for the other bowl and you stare at your little brother, willing the card to say anything but his name.
“Felix Leavenworth.”
You exhale, hating the relief you feel, but feeling it all the same, as you watch a boy you recognize– one of Amos’s classmates, just as young and undeserving of this fate. He walks closer until you can see the tears in his eyes and the tremble in his hands. You don’t want him to die, either.
But you cannot leave your siblings to starve. You cannot leave them alone in the world without someone who knows which songs will get them to sleep, how to season the rabbit so that they’ll eat it, or which stories about Ma and Pa to tell to keep their memories alive.
You feel as if you leave a piece of yourself behind when you say goodbye.
“Water the garden like I showed you. You’ll have food to eat from the harvest.” You tell them, trying desperately to say everything there is to say in the three minutes you’re allowed. “Trade my clothes, Ma’s jewelry, whatever you can for food in the winter. Go to Aleen. Aleen will help you, but you have to take care of each other.”
“You’ll come back.” Amos says, determined despite the tears now running down his face. “You’ll win, and you’ll come back.”
“You have to come back.” Sage pleads, clinging to your neck.
“I’ll try. I promise, I’ll do my best.” You say, feeling your throat closing up with desperation. “I love you both. I will fight for you. Always.”
The door opens. “Time’s up.”
“No, no, no, you can’t leave. Please!”
You grab them tight and kiss each of their heads and say what Pa used to say:
“Be good. I’ll be back soon.”
As they’re dragged out the door, one screaming, the other silent, you drop your head in your hands and sob, praying that what you’ve said isn’t another lie.
~
Haymitch skips the Reaping. He hasn’t been to one in thirteen years, and this year is no different.
Besides, he had to fortify himself for the train ride. Feeling the quiet hum of power, the flashing speed of the landscape disappearing outside, it always makes him feel like he’s hurtling towards his death all over again– a death that never came, and yet kills him a little bit every day.
He holds his left hand to his stomach, over that phantom pain, stretching his right hand out to catch the wall as he sways for a moment, off-balance enough without the train shuddering. He managed to limit himself to finishing off a half-empty bottle of wine before getting on the train, if only for knowing the bar in the dining car is always well-stocked with the harder stuff.
The Capitol has some virtues, after all.
The carriage door opens with a hydraulic rush, and he shoulders through the doorway. Haymitch freezes for a second when he realizes he’s not alone. They aren’t supposed to be here. The last two years, the tributes never really came out of their rooms until they reached the Capitol.
Clearly, this year will be different.
The girl doesn’t look much like a girl– all tall, poised, and beautiful. She can’t be more than eighteen if she’s here, but she has the manner of a woman, a girl grown up too soon. The boy is a boy, no doubt about it. Skinny, small, probably picked at his first Reaping, chosen to die before he has a chance to grow up. She has her hand on the boy’s shoulder, sitting close with her head bowed, an intent expression on her face. He looks at her like she holds the secrets of the universe in her hands.
This is dangerous, the kindness of her touch, the vulnerable trust written across his face. Caring can keep you alive, but it will also get you killed.
Haymitch has always believed the Reaping is rigged (beyond just putting kids’ names in more than once), and these two look primed and ready to lift hopes and break hearts across the Districts when they inevitably die horrible, violent deaths.
And they will die. They always do.
He should just grab the bottles and slink back to his room. If they don’t talk first, then he doesn’t have to say anything. He doesn’t have to acknowledge his role in all of this– the pied piper leading the children to slaughter.
But the woman – the girl – she, meets his gaze with a kind of expectation, a mix of hope and demand and his mouth opens on its own.
“Whatever you think you know, trust me, you don’t.”
She sits back, her spine straightening and her gaze narrowing, while the boy shrinks further, hugging his arms around himself.
“You’re Haymitch?” She asks, but it doesn’t sound like much of a question.
“The one and only.” He turns his back to her, picking up a heavy crystal tumbler glass, dropping in some ice and then pouring about four fingers of whisky.
“Tell us, then.” She says, “Tell us what we need to know.”
“Look, kid,” he takes a big swig and then swings around to face her, “It’s about more than telling. I can say all kinds of things, teach you everything there is to know about the Games, but you won’t get out of there alive unless you know what to do.”
“Find shelter, water, food.” She says, “Outlast as many as we can, and fight if we have to.”
She’s off to a better start than most.
“What’s your name?”
“Y/N.”
Pretty girl, pretty name, that’s how it always goes.
“You’re from the Seam?”
She nods. He nods back, slower, taking another drink. He’s not sure why he asked, other than that he can picture her running through the same trees as he did, hearing the mine whistle each day, watching the daily trudge of fathers and scrimping and scraping of mothers. There’s a hunger in her eyes, a determination that he recognizes.
“Surviving in Twelve isn’t the same as surviving in the Games.” He says, “Getting out of the arena is the easy part. Turning the odds in your favor before you go in is the hard part.”
“Like cheating?” The boy looks appalled.
“It speaks.” Haymitch raises his eyebrows, taking another sip. “I prefer to call it strategy. Get the people to love you, to root for you, make them want to do anything to make sure you’re the one walking out a victor. Reputation. Image. Performance. That’s what matters. No one cares, unless you can give them a good show.”
The boy goes pale enough for Haymitch to count each freckle on his face. But the gears are already turning in the girl’s head, Haymitch can see it. She’s a smart one. Not to be underestimated.
“Family.” She says, eyes bright, “Felix’s mother and a father. My younger sister and brother. We’re fighting for them anyway, as well as ourselves. We’ll look selfless…noble, if we make it about winning for our loved ones, about going back to the people– the people we’re leaving behind.”
She covers the falter well, hiding the raw emotion as soon as it emerges, but Haymitch notices.
“No parents?” He asks.
She shakes her head.
An orphan left to raise orphans. Tale as old as time.
“It’s a good enough place to start,” He says, his throat feeling dry. He knocks back the rest of the whisky, and then turns to exchange the glass for the bottle. “We’ll talk details tomorrow. That’s enough mentoring for today.”
Even as he turns and walks back through the door, hearing the rush of air behind him, all he can see is her determined gaze.
~
When you reach The Capitol, it feels like stepping onto another planet. Everything is shiny and white and clean, made of stone and metal and glass, stretching up higher than any tree you’ve ever seen. Even the people look different, they walk with a slow, unhurried grace, dressed in clothes of the finest fabric, dyed every color. Some, like your stylist Chrysanthemum – who purred, “You must call me Chrys, darling.” – have augmented their hair colors and facial features. Chrys has bright green hair, worn long and slicked back against their skull, and pointed ears with piercings all the way round.
You’re grateful, even through the humiliation and pain of being scrubbed and waxed and plucked and picked within an inch of your life, that at least your face is still yours at the end of the process– just cleaner and more beautiful than you ever remember seeing it before.
Everything is unfamiliar, from the food to the furniture to the clothes, and you cling to the two things you know: your schedule, and the people from Twelve. Every day, you follow the same routine– training with the other tributes in the morning, and training with your mentor in the afternoon. Evenings are free for tributes to do what they like within the Tribute Building. You hear the Careers talking sometimes, about whatever fun they’d gotten up to the night before, but you can’t imagine doing anything but resting while you can. The days are exhausting, enough that you’re actually able to sleep most nights.
In the morning training sessions, you and Felix keep to yourselves. Haymitch insisted you shouldn’t focus on any skills you already have, not wanting to make yourselves targets. Instead, you try to learn what you can, from camouflage to fishing to wound triage. During the morning sessions, you and Felix stay away from each other as well, not wanting to project any kind of alliance to the others. Still, you keep a protective eye on him throughout the mornings, wincing when he falls from the climbing ropes and grinning with pride when he successfully starts a campfire.
He’s nowhere near a match for the Careers. Neither are you, really. Their presence overwhelms the training center, with their cheers and jeers and shows of physical intimidation. The girl from One and the boy from Two are clearly the most skilled. The girl, Silk, moves like a dancer, but fights like a killer, dropping and pinning any of the trainers she spars with. The boy, Cassius, is huge for a seventeen year old, big and broad and muscular. He destroyed a punching bag on the second day, and left you watching with wide, terrified eyes.
Apart from the Careers, the other tributes mostly keep to themselves. Some show off more than others, like the boy from Five and girl from Seven, he’s a deadshot with a crossbow and she can dismember a training dummy with an ax in five seconds flat. The two tributes from Three are quiet, unassuming, but you’ve noticed them creating tools out of seemingly random items, like a water filtration device from mesh, charcoal, sand, and a plastic bottle. The girl noticed you watching, on the third day, and you hesitantly offered a smile. She smiled back.
She’s older than Felix, but younger than you. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. Her hair is dark and cut close to her scalp, sleek and spiky. The next day, she offered to show you how to make a slingshot out of sticks and rubber bands if you showed her how to set a snare.
You did, and learned her name is Ava. Her counterpart is Theo, who’s thirteen and still round-faced and childlike, his eyes twinkling with excitement when he explains how the holographic projections in the arena work.
You’re wary of making an alliance, other than with Felix. It could be helpful, at first, but you know you can’t truly trust anyone. And the idea of having to turn on a friend…it seems better not to make friends at all.
In the afternoons, you and Felix train together with Haymitch in the private gym designated for Twelve. Over the days spent training, you’ve learned a lot from Haymitch– more than you ever expected. The more time you spend with him, the more you realize the complexity behind the reputation. He hasn’t been as drunk as you expected. Yes, he always has a drink on hand, but he’s also always alert and engaging, seeming to use the alcohol as more of a crutch than a complete escape.
Although from what you’ve learned about his games, you wouldn’t blame him for wanting to drown it all away. You looked up the footage that first night on the train, unable to sleep for the grief and anxiety and determination vying for dominance in your chest. You were only six when he was Reaped and put in that arena with twice the number of tributes at just sixteen. You were too young to watch at the time, but that night you watched, unable to look away, as he suffered and fought and survived, playing the game his own way.
You didn’t tell him what you’d seen, but you approached him with greater understanding after that. You came to realize the sarcasm, the splash of whisky in his coffee, the guarded expression in his eyes, it’s all a part of the strategy– it’s how he survives. And at the end of all this, you and Felix should be so lucky as to be like him. A miserable, prickly alcoholic by the age of thirty– but alive. And still fighting.
That’s what he’s doing, in his own way, fighting for you and for Felix.
Training you, schmoozing with sponsors on your behalf, talking through your assessments of other tributes for possible allies, you imagine it can’t all be easy for him, but you need all the help he can give.
“The Gamemakers will call you in, one at a time, and assess you. Going in district order, you’ll be last,” Haymitch explained, leveling his gaze directly at you, “So you have to make an impression.”
You showed him what you could do– run fast, set traps and snares, and throw knives with decent accuracy. Haymitch watched with eyebrows raised and arms crossed.
“Where’d you learn that?”
“Pa– my father, he taught me. He used to take me hunting and trapping.”
Haymitch’s eyebrows lowered, and he nods in understanding before his lips quirk and he asks:
“He ever teach you to fight?”
You shook your head, and he beckoned you forward, the two of you standing across from each other on the training mats. He showed you a fighting stance, making you mirror his lifted arms and wide-set legs before moving over to gently adjust your left leg back and lift your right elbow higher. Then he returned to his original spot and told you to attack him.
You hesitated a moment, glancing at Felix standing wide-eyed off to the side, before you rushed your mentor. You were flat on your back with his forearm pressed to your neck in less than a minute. He rolled off of you and helped you up, only to flip you over his shoulder and onto your back again, leaving you winded and bewildered. You grew frustrated then, but focused, hooking your foot around his leg and knocking him off balance enough to launch yourself at his torso, gaining the upper hand for maybe a minute before he had you pinned again. The two of you continued like that until you were sticky with sweat, tapping out only when you noticed Felix had fallen asleep on the sidelines, and you guiltily insisted Haymitch give him a turn.
Today, on the last day of training before the evaluations tomorrow, you’re determined to prove that you’re ready. You’re fighting Haymitch, same as before, but this time he holds a dulled training knife in his hand, slashing and jabbing at you in a close range. You duck and dodge and grapple for the blade, grabbing and twisting his wrist while slamming a knee into his stomach, satisfied by the rush of air exiting his mouth. The knife drops and you swipe his leg out from under him, pushing forward with your own weight to slam his back into the mat, pinning his arms with your knees.
He told you not to hold back, that no one will be holding back in the arena, so you don’t. Besides, you’re starting to suspect he enjoys the fighting. He always seems more alive afterwards, more alert and awake, despite the bumps and bruises. He smiles, wide and bright, better than those sarcastic smirks, whenever you get a maneuver right, whenever you gain the upper hand. Like now, as you grab the knife and press the fake blade to his throat, a proud grin spreads across his face.
You can’t help your own smile growing, a product of your success and the exercise endorphins releasing in your brain. You shift to free his arms from under your knees as you catch your breath. His hands lift to your hips, and he pats your left side.
“Nice moves there, hotshot.”
“Thanks,” you breathe, mindlessly placing your palm on his chest for balance as you sit up, shifting your weight more heavily onto his hips.
His hands tighten suddenly on your hips and you inhale sharply, heart pumping as you half-expect another sparring match to begin, but he just lifts you off of him and sets you down on the mat. Haymitch clears his throat as he sits up with his legs bent, his arm resting casually over his knees, though his cheeks are noticeably flushed.
“Are you alright?” You ask, confused. “I didn’t– did I hurt you?”
He lets out a short laugh, pushing his hair back away from his face, and gives you a grim sort of smile. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Don’t worry, kid.”
You feel a flash of annoyance at the nickname. It’s a reminder of your situation, of your fate. You are not a child, and yet you are helpless, at the mercy of the Capitol and its games.
“I’m almost nineteen.” You say, regretting the pathetic statement the moment it leaves your mouth.
“What?”
“I’m not a kid.” You don’t look at him, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve.
There’s a pause, and then he says: “When’s your birthday?”
You don’t know why you brought it up anymore, or why he cares enough to ask, feeling a lump growing in your throat. “In five days.”
Haymitch doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. He knows as well as you do that five days from now, though you’ll be too old for the games, you’ll be in that arena all the same. You take a deep breath, forcing the hot bite of tears away, and look at Haymitch.
“It’s Felix’s turn.” You hold the knife out, the handle turned towards him, and he takes it.
You and Felix switch places, and you stretch on the sidelines, watching as he gets pummeled every time, the same as every day before. Haymitch glances at you every once in a while, and you ignore his gaze, knowing his expression is fraught with understanding– you’re ready, but Felix is not. And as you watch Felix’s small, lanky body overpowered easily by Haymitch’s strength and experience, you feel a sense of calm decision settle in the back of your mind.
You are not a child, but Felix is– just like Sage and Amos. Just like those sweet children you’re here to save, to secure their future. Felix has a mother and a father, who live in a house in town instead of a shack in the Seam with cracked walls, unlikely to starve or freeze through the winter. Felix is a child, but he has a good and kind heart. He’s a soft soul. If he goes home with the winnings of a Victor, he can share his security with Amos and Sage. He can make sure they have a house and parents and enough food and warmth to ease the pain of losing a sister.
So you have a plan. You’ll help Felix survive– teach him what you know, protect him in the arena, get him as far as you can in the Games. And at the end, Felix will win, one way or another. He has to.
~
Even as Haymitch drains what’s left in his flask, he knows there’s not enough alcohol in Panem to make the tribute interviews bearable.
The new face of the Capitol, Caesar Flickerman, is about Haymitch’s age, but seems almost inhuman, vapid and overly cheerful as he chatters on and on to a parade of children on the verge of a horrible, gruesome death. Haymitch watches the rest of the audience more than the interviews, evaluating their interest, their investment, and looking for potential available sponsors.
By the time the male tribute from District Eleven is wrapping up, the crowd is flagging, losing interest and murmuring distractedly. Haymitch shifts in his seat, feeling a pang of nervousness, feeling a twist of worry for her.
He knows he shouldn’t, she’s doing well– better than any tribute he’s seen in years. She knocked it out of the park yesterday, scoring a ten in the skill evaluations. No tribute from Twelve has broken above a seven in the last decade. Haymitch was so excited he could have kissed her. He didn’t, obviously, but he could have, he was just so proud.
But as Flickerman announces her name, gesturing off-stage for her entrance, Haymitch holds his breath. The crowd applauds and she emerges, stepping gracefully up onto the stage and taking Flickerman’s hand with a smile, and Haymitch’s breath leaves his chest in a rush.
She’s stunning.
Her stylist, for all their questionable personal taste, knew exactly what they were doing with her. The natural beauty he couldn’t help but notice even when she was coal-smudged and starving is accentuated by subtle, smoky makeup and hair styled meticulously to look effortlessly simple. The kicker is the dress, a sleek, flowing number with shifting, swirling colors of black and ember, the allure of her fire rivaling the sparkling gems and gold of District One. Haymitch feels himself leaning forward with the rest of the crowd, drawn in and captivated, just like everyone else, as she sinks elegantly into her chair.
“My goodness,” Flickerman fawns, “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you look absolutely gorgeous. Doesn’t she?”
The crowd erupts into even louder cheers and applause, jumping at the chance to be involved, to be noticed. Get in line, folks.
“Oh,” She flushes, looking genuinely – but not unpleasantly – bewildered at the attention, “It’s all due to my stylist, really.”
“Beautiful and humble,” Flickerman grins, “Are there any virtues you don’t possess?”
“Oh, plenty.” She laughs.
“Do tell.”
Haymitch leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of his mouth. Careful, kid.
“Well, I’m an overprotective sister, certainly.”
Good start.
“That doesn’t sound like a fault to me.”
“Trust me, Caesar, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my family, including–” she smiles, her eyes twinkling, “One time, throwing snowballs at a bobcat.”
“Now that is a story I have to hear.” The host turns to the audience again, “Don’t you?”
The crowd cheers again, eager and engaged, while Haymitch just shakes his head and grins, sitting back in his chair as she begins to speak.
Here we go…
“It was winter, about five years ago now, so I was fourteen and my sister and brother were only seven. Our father was out, fixing up a neighbor’s roof that had collapsed during the last snow storm.” She’s a good storyteller, setting the scene as the room falls into an entranced hush. “I was finishing up my chores while the kids played in the snow outside, thinking everything was fine until I realized it had gotten quiet out there. Too quiet. I went to the door and looked out, planning to call for them, when I saw them standing still and staring off toward the woods. I looked where they were looking and I saw it. A bobcat, not a big one, but it must have been desperate and hungry if it had wandered so close to town.”
“Hungry enough to eat a seven-year-old?” Flickerman murmurs.
“Exactly.” She nods gravely. “I thought– well, I guess I wasn’t really thinking. I just knew I had to get the thing away from my siblings. So I start screaming and gathering snowballs and throwing them, figuring I’d either scare it away or turn its attention to me long enough for the kids to run and get help. Luckily, a snowball or two to the face seemed to scare it more than make it angry, and it ran off back into the woods, never to be seen again.”
“Oh, brava,” the host applauds, and the crowd joins in– even Haymitch, though he’s clapping more for her performance than the story itself. He couldn’t have coached her to do better if he tried. “There must have been snowballs in that evaluation room yesterday, for you scored a ten. A ten! The highest score for a tribute from your district in over a decade. Your parents must be very proud of you.”
“I think they would be.” She smiles wistfully, and Haymitch can tell she knows what she’s doing now, pitching her tone to the perfect level of regret, without becoming melodramatic. “But they’ve both passed on, now. I’m the only family my brother and sister have left.”
A gasp and murmur runs through the crowd, the plush and privileged people of the Capitol imagining the hardship of this brave, beautiful girl raising her brother and sister, forced to leave them behind as she faces death.
They have no idea.
“Oh, dear, I am sorry to hear that.” Flickerman pats her hand. “And what are your brother and sister’s names?”
“Amos and Sage.”
“Amos and Sage,” Flickerman echoes, smiling thoughtfully, “And is there anything you’d like to say to them, if they’re watching right now?”
“Yes.” She nods, and then shifts to speak directly to the audience, to one of the many cameras hidden hovering in the dark theater. “I miss you both, more than I can say, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you. And I promise I’m going to fight for you, for as long as I can.”
Haymitch can tell she chose her words carefully, but the emotion underlying it all is real. He can see and hear and feel the love she carries for those kids, and the heartbreak of leaving them behind.
The rest of the room feels it too, quiet and somber as she turns back to Flickerman. Haymitch even hears a few sniffles among the audience as Flickerman takes her hand and kisses the back of her hand. Creep.
“What a moving message,” he says, “I think I speak for all of us when I say we wish you the best of luck, and hope to see you reunited with your family soon. What do you say, folks? Can we give it up one more time for the beautiful, the lovely, Y/N L/N!”
The crowd erupts again, clapping and cheering and whooping, and for the first time that night– getting to their feet for a standing ovation.
Atta girl.
Pride swelling warm in his chest, Haymitch stands and takes advantage of the fanfare and distraction, shuffling his way out of the row and down the aisle. He shoulders through the side door and navigates to the backstage hallway, arriving just a moment before she comes through the door from the stage as Flickerman announces the boy next. She looks stunned, her expression strained and slightly frightened as an usher holds the door open for her.
When their eyes meet, she visibly relaxes, and she smiles. “Haymitch.”
His pride swells even bigger, and he steps forward and sweeps her into a hug. She wraps her arms around his neck, squeezing him back.
Jesus, she even smells good.
Her stylist must have spritzed her with some kind of fancy perfume, but somehow it smells exactly like those beautiful blue flowers that only grow in District Twelve in the summer.
“Was I alright?” She asks, pulling away and searching his face with anxious desperation. “I feel like I blacked out.”
Haymitch cuts her off with a gentle hand on her arm, “You were fucking brilliant.”
She beams. “Really?”
“Forget the sponsors, I think you just got all of Panem behind you for this thing.”
She sighs, relieved, and then her eyes widen and she spins around. Haymitch follows her gaze to the hologram projection of the stage, presenting the live interview feed. This time Haymitch sighs, and not in relief.
“How have you found our Capitol, Felix? Is it everything you ever dreamed it would be?”
“Yeah, it’s great!” the boy bobs his head, looking visibly terrified, “But—um, I guess, I haven’t seen much of it? We don’t—we don’t really leave the tribute building. Training, and stuff.”
Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Training and stuff.’ Jesus.
“Of course,” Flickerman says, smiling diplomatically, “And what will you do if you win the games? With the world at your fingertips, what would you reach out and grab?”
Haymitch hears Y/N inhale and hold her breath. He watches the boy on the screen, fidgeting and frightened.
Come on, come on, pull it together.
“I don’t—um, I just want to go home.” He looks tiny and terrified, more pathetic than pitiful, “I just want to see my mom and dad again.”
“Dammit.” Haymitch shakes his head, pacing away in frustration.
“Haymitch.”
He stops, turning at the feeling of her hand on his arm, gripped tight.
“Haymitch, listen to me.” She looks intense and powerful, enough that Haymitch feels himself snap to attention. “Whatever sponsors I get, throw them to Felix. Tell them it’s for me if you have to, but send whatever he needs. I’ll find him in the arena and protect him, I’ll make sure he survives.”
Haymitch can barely believe what he’s hearing.
“I’ll talk to him tonight, and explain,” She continues, a frightening certainty in her gaze. “If he wins, if I make sure he’s the last one, then Amos and Sage can live with him and his parents. I’ve seen them, they’re nice people. They’ll take care of my brother and sister.”
“No,” Haymitch shakes his head, turning to face her, “What— you can’t guarantee any of that. And— that's beside the point— why would you— don’t— don’t you–” he grits his teeth, grabbing her shoulders, trying to make her understand, “You have a real chance here. You can’t give it up.”
He shouldn’t care. Caring gets other people killed. Caring gets you hurt. Haymitch learned that lesson too many times– with Maysilee, with his mother, with his sister. He’s made a point of not caring. Keeping himself at arms-length. Keeping things professional, not personal. Except now, after more than ten years, he’s gone and put a crack in the walls he’s worked so hard to build, just to see a glimmer of light that will only be snuffed out in a matter of days, maybe even hours. He squeezes her arms tighter, feeling it slip out of his grasp– his control over the preparation, the strategy, the only thing he can offer. All because she can’t see the value of her own survival. She can’t see how in this never-ending cycle of power and abuse that no one ever wins, she has the most potential to put the odds in her favor of anyone he’s ever seen.
“I’m not giving it up.” She shoves his hands away and crosses her arms, “I’m giving it to Felix. He’s just a kid. He deserves a chance to live.”
“And you don’t?”
His chest squeezes as she holds herself tighter, her eyes shining with the desperate helplessness of a kind soul trying to do the right thing in the face of an impossible choice.
“I can’t just let him die.” She shakes her head, pushing past him to walk down the hall toward the dressing rooms, effectively ending the discussion.
Haymitch just stands there, watching her go, feeling the world spinning out of control around him.
But I can’t let you die, either.
~
On the morning of the Games, you feel oddly calm. Unlike the Reaping, when you were haunted by a creeping sense of doom, now you’re resigned. You will die. You will not live to see your home, or your family, again. But you will not die in vain. You will fight, and you will survive, to protect your friend, and in doing so, you will protect your brother and sister, too. That knowledge, that purpose, is what provides your sense of calm, your sense of focus, as you prepare to face your death.
They separate the tributes from each district for final preparations, the Peacekeepers injecting each of you with trackers to monitor your location and vital signs before escorting you into a small, white-walled room beneath the enormous arena. You knew Chrys would be waiting for you, but you’re surprised to see Haymitch as well, leaning against the smooth metal table that has your arena uniform folded on top of it.
You glance back at the faceless helmets of the Peacekeepers, but they don’t react to the sight of your mentor, simply turning around and taking their stations outside the door as it shuts with a hydraulic whoosh. You turn back and give Haymitch a questioning look.
“Not that I’m unhappy to see you, but–”
“What the hell am I doing here?” Haymitch finishes for you, his mouth quirking up into a smile.
“Yeah.” You nod, distracted by Chrys lifting your uniform from the table.
Haymitch straightens up and shifts out of their way. He opens his mouth to reply, when Chrys clears their throat and shoots him a look. He rolls his eyes, but turns to face the other direction, talking while Chrys helps you strip out of your clothes and pull on the uniform.
“Mentors are allowed to give last-minute advice.” Haymitch explains, and you watch his hands fidget at his sides, realizing this is the first time you’ve seen him without a drink handy – even during training, he always had a bottle of “diluted” water nearby. “And before you get on to me about seeing the kid, I already talked to him before you left. I impressed upon him the importance of getting away from the cornucopia and finding somewhere high and out of the way to hide and wait for you. The same goes for you, hotshot. Don’t risk the bloodbath for weapons, just get the hell out of there and find food, water, and shelter. The longer you last, the less people you’ll have to kill to get what you need. Look– this is ridiculous, can I turn around now?”
You give Chrys a questioning look. They sigh, but tell Haymitch it’s fine. He turns around as Chrys fits a big heavy coat over your shoulders. Your uniform is layered, with soft-lined skin tight trousers and an equally fitted long-sleeve shirt under thicker, waterproof pants and the fur-lined, hooded coat on top. You wear thick-soled boots and fleece-lined gloves, both as pristine white as the rest of the ensemble. You’re too warm in the small, underground room, but you imagine the arena above must be unforgivingly cold.
You’re already thinking through the possibilities. From the concerned, focused look on Haymitch’s face, he is too. If there’s snow, you’ll have trouble finding food, though it’ll be easy to track animals, it’ll be hard to hide your own tracks from other tributes. Likewise, you’ll be hard-pressed to find shelter, or dry firewood. That’s if there’s trees at all, and it’s not a bare tundra leaving you completely exposed for the ensuing bloodbath.
“It’s almost time.” Chrys reminds you, not unkindly, as they zip up your coat and brush invisible specs of dust from the sleeves before stepping back.
Your curated sense of calm falters, cracking under the sudden reality of this– the uncertainty of everything except your own death. A lump forms in your throat and your eyes burn with unwanted tears as you force a shaky breath in and out.
“Hey, look at me.” Haymitch moves in to occupy the space Chrys just left, his hands gently grasping your shoulders, and you force yourself to focus on his face. His eyes are a soft, gentle blue, the pale skin around the corners just starting to crease. For all of his moods and grumblings, he’s still young— a decade older than you, but not yet old. His hair is too long and too lanky, but not yet gray. His grip is strong, his hands warm even through the material of your coat. He is young and alive. Fighting and surviving and playing the game. The game you are about to enter.
“You fight. You survive. You don’t give up.” He sighs, looking down for a second before meeting your gaze again, “But I want you to know that no matter what happens, I’ll make sure Amos and Sage are looked after. I’ll make sure they’re alright.”
You hear a hydraulic sound, looking to your left to see the door opening to the large plastic chute that will take you up to the arena.
“Time to go.” Chrys says, sounding close to tears as they step up behind Haymitch’s shoulder. “Good luck, darling.”
Your hands shoot up in desperation, your chest tightening as hard as your grip on Haymitch’s wrists.
“You have to swear—”
“I swear.” He pulls you in against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around your back, his voice steady and serious. “I’ll take care of them. I promise.”
You can only nod once into his shoulder, feeling the ends of his long blonde hair tickle your cheek. You inhale deeply, your chest aching to find he smells like home, like pine and woodsmoke. You exhale and force yourself out of his still lingering grasp, turning around and stepping into the tube. The door shuts and seals, and you exhale as the platform begins to rise. You can feel Chrys and Haymitch watching you, but you can’t let yourself look back. Instead, you lift your head and take one more deep breath before you enter the arena.
The sky opens above you and cold air floods in, waking every nerve in your body. You’re blind for a moment, disoriented by the pure white light all around. You blink furiously, and your eyes slowly adjust. You’re surrounded by white snow, reflecting the bright sun above. In front of you, the hulking form of the cornucopia sits, its wide mouth pointing slightly to your left and the tail pointing to the sky, the sunlight beaming off of the concave metal in all directions. Squinting against the glare, you turn your head to see the other tributes fanning out in a circle to either side of you.
“Welcome, tributes, to the 63rd annual Hunger Games.” A disembodied voice booms through the air, as a projected countdown clock appears in the sky, ticking down from twenty-four. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”
24
Your heart pounds as you quickly scan the other tributes, trying to find Felix, glancing back at the clock.
23
The boy from Ten is to your left, and the girl from Four is to your right.
22
You see Ava, three platforms away to the right, and Theo two more past her.
21
Felix must be on the other side of the cornucopia, obscured by the massive structure.
20
You force yourself to breathe. To trust that he’ll turn right around and run away, that he’ll hide and wait for you to find him.
19
From where you stand, you’re at a good enough angle to see inside the cornucopia, though the various offerings spill outwards, placed on the ground or on short white columns extending a few yards beyond the mouth of the cavern.
18
Lying on the ground closest to you, but not close enough, you see a backpack. It’s zipped shut, but you imagine it’s filled with useful supplies.
17
Further away, but still outside the shadowed interior of the cornucopia, you see a set of hunting knives, tucked neatly in a leather carrier, displayed on top of a column.
16
Squinting, you can just make out part of the treasure trove set deep inside the cornucopia. The gleam of weapons, the outline of backpacks, the edge of shelves likely containing food, medicine, and clean water.
15
You turn your attention to the wider arena. The cornucopia is in a clearing of sorts, with a forest of tall conifer trees surrounding your circle of tributes like a dark, snow-dusted wall.
14
The shape of a mountain rises in the distance beyond the cornucopia, the forest thinning towards the rocky peak.
13
Behind you and off to the right, you can just make out the glint of water through the trees.
12
It’s probably a river, given the freezing temperature. A still body of water would likely be frozen over.
11
If you run back that way, and follow the flow upstream, it’ll likely lead you to the mountain.
10
If Felix runs the way he should, he’ll be running to the mountain. Maybe he’ll be able to climb a tree or build a shelter.
9
The tributes nearest to you are looking around, surveying, planning, just like you. The boy from Ten seems intent on the cornucopia, but the girl from Four keeps looking over her shoulder.
8
If she goes for the river, you’ll have to outrun her. Or divert your path to avoid her. You won’t fight unless you’re attacked. Unless you have to.
7
Across the circle, by the tail of the cornucopia, you see a flash of movement, your brain barely registering that a tribute is stepping off the platform before— BOOM!
6
Your ears ring with the shock of the explosion, eyes wide as you stare, stunned at the gruesome splatter of blood, flesh, and ice. You shake your head and stretch your jaw, the ringing in your ears subsiding enough for you to focus.
5
You watch cracks spread from the site of the explosion, splintering across the ground, exposing clear blue water beneath. The tributes nearest the explosion crouch and wobble on their own platforms, bewildered not only by the blast but by being suddenly surrounded by water as the frozen lake is revealed.
4
Those tributes will have to swim rather than run. The others…you look around again, heart racing and adrenaline pounding as you realize most of the tributes are still distracted, stunned by the explosion and confused by the water, staring at the explosion site. Giving you an opening.
3
It’s risky. You could slip. You could fall through. You weren’t even going to go for it anyway. But you feel the impulse tugging deep in your gut, your instincts saying you can make it.
2
You bend your knees, setting your sights on the backpack. Haymitch’s face flashes in your mind, the knowing, warning expression saying “Don’t you do it.” You take a breath, and think: “I’m sorry, Haymitch.”
1
You run, your boots thankfully finding traction on the thin layer of snow covering the ice. In your periphery, you see others moving, though you can’t tell if they’re running closer or running away. You drop your weight and slide the final few feet to the backpack, grabbing it and leaping back up in the same moment, veering to your right and making a break for the far edge of the platform circle.
Another tribute is heading your way, approaching from the left, and you push your legs harder, trying to run faster.
“Drop the bag, Twelve!”
You don’t waste your breath on a response, slinging the strap over your shoulder as you sprint for the perimeter. You break past the line of now empty platforms, feeling the sharp burn of the cold air in your lungs, hearing the footsteps still pounding behind you. Your heart stops and the air rushes out of your chest as a body collides with yours, sending you down hard into the snow. You roll onto your back, just raising your arms in front of your face when the other tribute is on top of you, throwing wild desperate punches. You block one to your head, but have to bite back a groan as he catches your ribs. You fight back, kicking at his stomach, when he lets out a choked noise and stills, his whole body weight slumping on top of you.
A cannon booms in the distance. Shoving and panting, you scramble out from under the body, barely recognizing him as the boy from Eleven, his eyes wide and glassy with a knife embedded in his spine, before something rushes through the air and you just manage to dive to the right, narrowly avoiding a knife to your own neck.
You shuffle backwards, eyes wide with panic as you see Cassius standing in the distance, getting ready to throw another. You roll and get your feet under you, sprinting for the trees again, zig-zagging to throw off his aim. Still, within seconds you feel a slice of cold against your right arm, watching the knife hit the ground just beyond the treeline.
Breaking through into the forest, you slow just long enough to grab the blade, snatching it and nearly dropping it just as fast, but forcing your cold fingers to grip the handle as you bob and weave through the trees. You reach the river, hearing distant shouts and screams, another cannon, and then another. The river is wide and fast, the rushing of water drowning out the sounds of the carnage behind you. You run along the bank, moving upstream, until you see enough snow-covered rocks jutting out above the water for you to cross, and you skid to a stop.
Heart pounding, you back up a few paces before taking a running leap. As you land, your left foot slips on the rock and almost sends you into the frigid water. You cry out, feeling your adrenaline spike as you regain your balance. You pause, trying to calm down, to catch your breath, as you gear up for the next jump. Taking a deep breath, you leap again, your knees wobbling but not giving out as you land on the next rock. The other bank is closer now, but too far to reach with one jump. Two smaller rocks stand between you and the other side, neither large enough for you to plant both feet at once. You breathe again, and then hop your right foot onto one, pushing off to land your left on the other before launching your body at the far shore. You hit the ground, driving the knife into the snow and dirt below as an anchor to pull yourself away from the water and fully onto the bank.
Rolling onto your back, you stare up at the sky, the steely blue just visible through the thick, needle-covered branches of the trees surrounding you. You allow yourself to catch your breath, to feel your heartbeat slow from its frantic, panicked rhythm, blinking up at the criss-cross of branches above you.
Finally, as you start to feel the cold air again, you sit up, and notice for the first time that you’re bleeding. There’s a gash on your right arm where the knife must have grazed you, blood staining the once pristine, now torn, white fabric of your coat. It’s not deep, and it’s not bleeding fast, but you know you can’t leave the cut to get infected. Still, you’re too out in the open to stop and deal with it now. You get to your feet and yank the knife from the ground with your left hand, tucking the blade carefully into your belt.
You move away from the loud rush of the river and further into the cover of the tree line, walking parallel to the water as you continue upstream towards the mountain. Three more cannons fire, one soon after you start your trek, and then two in quick succession about an hour later. The career pack is probably already on the hunt. Picking up the pace, you reach the mountain before sundown, the terrain getting steeper.
While you want to find Felix as soon as possible, you have no way of knowing whether he’s still alive until the announcement of the fallen after nightfall. Besides, you’ll be no use to him if you drop dead from exhaustion or frostbite before you track him down. So you find a tall, sturdy tree beside a rocky outcropping, and jump from the top of the rocks to the lowest branches before climbing up as high as the boughs will still hold your weight.
You settle on a thick branch with your back to the tree trunk, and finally open the backpack. Inside, you discover that you risked your life for a metal cup, a length of rope, a roll of bandages, a thin woolen blanket folded into a tight square, and a needle stuck into a spool of thread.
Wincing, you pull off your coat, keeping it carefully tucked between your back and the trunk of the tree as you numb the gash on your arm with snow from a neighboring branch and then slowly, painstakingly stitch the wound with the needle and thread before wrapping your arm in as little of the bandage as you can. By the time you’ve finished, your muscles are heavy and aching with exhaustion. You slip your coat back on and zip it up, lash yourself to the tree with the rope, and cover your legs with the blanket. You pull the hood up to shield your head from the cold, and lean back against the tree.
You lift your head at a soft, repetitive tone, lowering your hood to better peer through the trees at the small parachute floating towards you. Reaching out, you grab the small metal capsule attached to the strings. The noise stops as you twist open the lid to find a small container and a note. You open the container first, finding a creamy salve inside. You close it again, and read the note.
You suck at sewing. Use this next time. - H
A breath of a laugh leaves your lips and you shake your head, smiling for a moment before packing the salve and the note away for later. Just after you lean back against the tree, you jolt at the loud, swooping melody of the Panem national anthem echoing through the air. Looking up through the sparse tree branches above your perch, you see the seal of Panem projected onto the domed sky of the arena.
Anxiety swirls in your stomach as you watch the photos of the fallen tributes flash one by one. The boy from Seven. The boy from Eleven. The girl from Four. The boy from Nine. The girl from Eight. The girl from Ten. The boy from Six. The girl from Six. The seal flashes again, and the music ends. The sky returns to darkness and the twinkling of false stars.
Eight tributes are already dead, and sixteen are still alive. Felix survived. Somewhere out there, your friend is waiting for you. With that knowledge soothing your worries for the moment, you allow your eyes to close, your head resting against the tree.
Hours later, you wake, not to the artificial sunlight of morning, as you expected, but to the sound of a cannon. Heartbeat picking up, you peer through the pre-dawn light at the ground below and the treeline around you, ears straining to hear voices or footsteps.
Nothing.
Carefully, you untie your bandage and apply the salve, closing your eyes at the cool, pain-relieving sensation, before covering the wound again. You untie the rope next and pack both it and the blanket away, shouldering your backpack again as you clamber back down to the ground. You break off a thin, low-hanging branch, and pull out the rope again, using it to tie the branch to the back of your pack, hanging loosely upside down so the needles swing and drag on the ground. You walk a few steps and then look back, pleased to see your footsteps brushed away. Hopefully eluding anyone trying to track you, you continue hiking uphill.
By the time the sun is shining over the mountain, the river is no longer a river so much as a series of small streams cascading in the same direction. The terrain is less forested, and rockier, making your view of the arena wider, but your visibility more exposed.
You take a break to rest and plan your next move, sitting on a rock next to one of the small streams feeding the river below, filling your tin cup with cold water and taking a drink. After walking for hours, you haven’t seen any edible vegetation, just snow and pine and rocks. You’ll have to set traps or hunt– without the ability to forage, the gamemakers must have included some small game. Even if there’s deer out there, you won’t be able to do much with just your knife. You’re thinking through the logistics of trying to catch fish in the river when a twig snaps behind you. On your feet in an instant, you face the sound, pulling the knife from your belt and holding it ready.
Scanning the snowy, tree-dotted incline, you see the shoulder of a white coat peeking out from behind a trunk. The tribute’s not a Career, if they were, you’d be dead already. They’re further up the mountain, which means they probably weren’t following you.
“I don’t want to kill you,” you call out, “But if you come any closer, I will.”
A hand lifts in a show of surrender, but the person doesn’t move to reveal their face. Instead, a hesitant voice calls your name.
Your heart thumps. “Felix?”
“No,” Theo’s sweet, round face emerges from behind the tree, “But I can take you to him.”
It could very easily be a trap. Theo’s smart, and when the aim of the game is to be the last one standing, his unassuming appearance doesn’t equate harmlessness. Still, he and Ava were both kind to you during training, and there are a lot of tributes left in the competition less friendly than yourself.
You keep him at a distance, your knife still held at the ready and your senses alert as you follow him up and across the snow ridge past the trees, and then back down a few yards to a rocky outcropping.
He explains as you walk, seemingly oblivious to your distrust, that he and Ava ran from the cornucopia together and headed for the mountain, where Theo quite literally ran into Felix, the two boys knocking each other to the ground. Ava, he said, suggested the alliance, and the three of them continued up the mountain together.
“We found it right before dark,” Theo says, as he approaches the outcropping, “It’s still a work in progress. Actually, I was supposed to go out and get more firewood, but I think they’ll be happier to see you.”
He moves an innocuously placed cluster of pine branches aside, and reveals an opening in the outcropping, just big enough to walk through sideways. Theo stares at you for a second, waiting.
“After you, Theo.”
“Right. Yeah.” He goes first, and you follow, turning back to pull the cover over the entrance again.
You shuffle through the opening for a few steps before entering a small cave, illuminated and heated by a fire in the center, with Felix and Ava sitting on either side, their heads turned to the entrance at the sound of footsteps.
“Look who I found!” Theo announces, stepping aside so they can see you.
There’s just enough time for you to drop the knife before Felix is slamming into you, his gangly arms wrapped tight around your torso, trapping your own arms against your sides. The relief hits you even harder, putting an ache in your chest as you rest your cheek against the top of Felix’s head, your throat tight with emotion as you say:
“It’s good to see you too.”
~
Every victor is broken in one way or another. No one survives the Games intact. No one is the same, no one is just fine, no one fully puts themselves back together again. It might be self-inflicted scars to recreate the ones healed and disappeared by the stylists after being extracted from the arena. It might be pills, a colorful array of uppers and downers made available by access to the Capitol. It might be alcohol, to help you forget, to help you sleep, to numb…everything. Most hide their vices, at least from the public, trying to maintain the strong, sparkling image of Panem’s heroes.
Haymitch made drinking a part of his persona. It fits the dry cynicism that’s been a part of his personality long before his name came up on that little white card thirteen years ago. It complements the dirty, rugged, scrappy image of District Twelve.
And drinking helps, even in the ways it hurts. The nights he passes out after finishing a bottle, his sleep is deep and dreamless, free from the nightmares. In the morning, a small, sick part of him welcomes the pounding headache as a continuation of his punishment, a part of the never-ending repentance for what he’s done.
Normally, he’s at his worst during the Games. The past few years, he drinks and half-watches until both tributes are dead, usually gone in the first hours, maybe days. The longest he’s had to wait was six days, during the 59th Games, when the boy made it into the final five before getting his entrails ripped out by a mutt. Haymitch barely sleeps while the Games are on, knowing no amount of alcohol will save him from the dreams. Once both tributes are gone, he climbs onto the train back to Twelve and stumbles back into his house, where he’ll stay until the next summer when he’ll fall apart all over again.
This year is different. He’s not sober, that’s for sure. After watching her run for that goddamn cornucopia and nearly get herself killed in the first five minutes, he knocked back an entire glass of whiskey in one breath. But Haymitch is keeping himself together more easily than he ever has before. He has no choice, really, but to stay present and focused, in case she needs him. In case they need him.
Admittedly, the boy impressed him. He played it smart, running for the mountain, making allies instead of just relying on Y/N to come save him. The boy even made a fire to keep him and his little friends warm when neither of those District Three brainiacs could figure it out.
Now, they’ve got a good thing going, the four of them. A little survival camp, and the Capitol elites are eating it up. He sits in the VIP viewing room, surrounded by other mentors and all the potential sponsors, watching as they’re drawn in by the alliance of four just as much as the violent exploits of the Careers. Haymitch feels the pull of appeal himself, unable to keep his eyes off the screen monitoring his tributes.
There’s something sweet and entertaining about their little group. Haymitch feels the warmth of pride and amusement as he watches Y/N step easily into the role of leader. She teaches them whistle signals to let each other know it’s one of their own approaching or if there’s danger nearby, and institutes a rule of two to keep anyone from wandering off alone. They boil snow into drinking water and trek down to the river, where Ava and Theo put together a kind of water trap that catches two fish in the same amount of time it takes Y/N and Felix to set up snares in the woods to be checked the next morning.
They sit around the fire and eat and drink, safe and warm for the moment. The viewing room is quiet, enraptured with their bittersweet conversation, knowing just as well – perhaps better – that this happy survival is fleeting, but enjoying it all the same.
“What’s your favorite food back home?” Theo asks. “Mine is the orange sweets we get for the winter holiday. My dad always brings home a big bag and hides them around the house for us to find. I hide mine under my pillow and save them until spring.”
“I like those too,” Ava agrees, “But my favorite is strawberries in the summer. My mother grows them in our garden and I pick them and eat them right off the plant. My brother thinks I’ll get sick from the dirt, but it’s good for building antibodies in our immune systems.”
Felix’s voice is quiet, “Chicken and carrot soup. Mama always makes it when I’m sick. She brings it to me in bed and sings to me afterwards to help me fall asleep.”
“Bread,” Y/N says, glowing soft and golden in the firelight, “We could never afford enough flour to make a real loaf, so we made flatbread at home. But my father would save up in springtime and buy a big loaf of bread from the bakery for my birthday.”
For the first time in a long time, perhaps ever, Haymitch knows exactly what to do. Her admission could not come at a better time, with tomorrow marking five days since the last day of training. Haymitch stands, ready to charm and cajole, but the sponsors are already approaching, their eyes full of vague emotion, but ready and eager to support his plan.
The next morning, Haymitch stands with his arms crossed as he watches the screen with anticipation. Y/N is the first to wake, quietly moving to check outside the safe haven of the cave. Haymitch shifts his weight from one foot to the other and then back to the middle as he watches her hear the parachute, looking up to find it floating through the sky. She walks over to where it lands in the snow, clearly puzzled by its larger size compared to the first one, the silver capsule reflecting the pastel pink of the early morning sky. Haymitch lifts his hand to cover his mouth as she opens the lid.
His heart pounds as she drops down on her knees in the snow right there, her eyes wide as she takes in the loaf of bread. As she reads the card, Haymitch whispers the words printed on the note, wanting them said even though she cannot hear him.
“Happy birthday, kid.”
A big, beaming smile spreads across her face, more beautiful than the sunrise behind her. Haymitch feels his own smile grow, his fingers pressed to his lips as he watches her look up towards the sky as she says: “Thank you.”
The sponsors clap, chattering and smiling in self-congratulation, but Haymitch knows she was speaking to him. The feeling in his chest is dangerous, this kind of glowing satisfaction at having caused the joy painted across her face, the yearning ache to do it again, to do anything to see her smile again. It’s dangerous, and he knows it, but he can’t help but feel the delight that comes from bringing her happiness.
Because it can’t last.
While the little group of survivors enjoy their bread for breakfast, planning to check their traps and gather more firewood, the Career pack are out hunting. Haymitch is assured, somewhat, by the distance between the Careers and his tributes, the former fanning out from the cornucopia through the woods and the latter on the far side of the mountain, but he knows it’s only a matter of time until the Gamemakers intervene.
That time comes late the next morning. The Careers have cut the tribute number in half, systematic and ruthless as they tracked footprints in the snow and followed plumes of campfire smoke above the treeline as the other tributes tried desperately not to starve or freeze to death, only to be killed in a desperate frenzy. The Three-Twelve alliance heard the cannons throughout the day before, on-edge, but unwilling to abandon their camp. Haymitch nodded with unconscious approval as Y/N insisted they shouldn’t split up for anything, even in pairs, and maintain a watch rotation overnight.
All four of them are at the river, Ava and Theo checking the water traps while Y/N resets a snare and Felix holds a dead squirrel like he’s not sure what to do with it. She notices the tremor first, making the rope line tremble and shake. She looks up, probably assuming it’s just wind, and then sees the cloud of white at the top of the mountain. Haymitch’s heart plummets as her eyes go wide with terror.
“Run!” She screams, grabbing Felix’s arm and dragging him downhill towards the others. “Go! Now!”
Even in the snow, she’s fast, catching up with Ava and Theo and then overtaking them, leading their desperate charge through the trees. Haymitch can’t sit still, his knee bouncing and his hands clenched tight together in front of his mouth. He watches the avalanche gaining on them, the cascade of snow and rocks growing bigger and faster with every passing second.
“We can’t outrun it!” Ava shouts.
She’s right. They won’t make it. Not all together, with Theo lagging and Felix only keeping up because of Y/N’s iron grip on his wrist.
“The trees! Find a big one!” Y/N locks onto a tall, thick pine tree up ahead, “There!”
She skids to a stop next to it, crouching down with her fingers laced together above her knee.
Haymitch scrapes a hand over his face. Come on, come on.
Felix gets the memo, though, and she boosts him up, then Ava. When Theo stumbles and falls, a few feet away, Haymitch is on his feet before he can think about it.
“Get up, Theo!” Her voice is high and desperate, “You can make it!”
Theo is up, struggling through the snow.
“That’s it, Theo! Come on!” Ava and Felix are already halfway up the tree and still climbing higher while Y/N remains on the ground.
Start climbing. Haymitch can feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Start climbing that fucking tree.
Haymitch lets out a short exhale as Y/N jumps and grabs the first few branches, climbing up a few feet. His breath catches when she stops, wrapping one arm around the trunk and reaching down with the other to haul Theo up to the first branch with a strained cry.
Go, go, go.
She starts to climb, moving faster than is probably safe, but he doesn’t care as long as she gets as far away from the ground as she can. Theo tries to keep up, but it’s clear he’s never climbed a tree in his life, and Haymitch knows the kid’s doomed a second before the avalanche hits.
The wall of snow and rock slams into the tree, and they wrap their arms and legs around the trunk, holding on for dear life. But Theo is still too low. The wave of white engulfs him, and he’s gone. The blast of the cannon is barely audible over the rushing roar of the avalanche. The surviving three look down with horror and grief, holding on for dear life even as they process their first acquaintance with loss in the arena.
Big as it is, the tree is no match for the strength of gravity which gathered the flow of rock and now, the pine begins to crack and bend against the continued pressure. Haymitch shakes his head. He watches Y/N look around, before settling on the dense forest continuing downhill.
“We have to jump!” She shouts.
Haymitch nods, his head bobbing mindlessly. Good. Okay. Fuck.
“What?” Felix turns as white as the snow below.
“When it starts to fall, we jump for the next tree!” She shifts carefully, getting ready as the tree creaks and starts to tip further, “Get ready– now!”
They launch themselves out of the tree, slamming into the next trunk and sliding, grabbing desperately at branches until they’ve each found a grip. Haymitch forces a slow exhale through his nose, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.
This new tree holds steady, and they cling for dear life while the avalanche slows and finally subsides, the forest returning to its former quiet stillness. Haymitch returns to his seat, slumping down in exhausted relief as the tributes begin to climb back down to the ground.
He should have known better than to believe it’s over.
Ava, climbing from the highest point, with a steady stream of tears probably blurring her vision, reaches for a weak limb, gasping as it snaps and sends her tumbling down. Haymitch winces as she breaks through another branch, and then hits another– this one more solid than herself, and cries out in pain before finally hitting the snow below. She half-sobs, half-screams, but doesn’t move, while Y/N and Felix scramble down to reach her.
Oh shit. Haymitch sits forward again, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes in Ava’s wide, panicked eyes.
“It’s okay,” Y/N tries to soothe her, running to kneel at her side, taking her hand. “You’re going to be okay. Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I can’t– I can’t feel anything,” Ava pants, “My legs– or my– I can’t– I can’t move my arms.”
Y/N and Felix exchange a look of horrified understanding. Y/N doesn’t let go of Ava’s hand.
“I think you hit your back. Your spine. It could be temporary paralysis. I’ve heard of it with miners back home. We can lift you, carry you somewhere safe, and– and wait it out. Maybe they’ll send something– some medicine, or something.”
“Mm-mm.” Ava presses her lips together, shaking her head. “You should go.”
“No, Ava. No.” Y/N’s voice trembles, and Haymitch’s heart aches. “We can’t just leave you here.”
“I’ll only slow you down.” Ava says, her own voice growing more certain. “I’m– I’m not going to make it. I can’t fight, I can’t run. It’s over.”
“Don’t give up.” Y/N shakes her head, “You can’t– you can’t just–”
“It’s easier this way.” Ava sniffles, smiling, “Now I won’t have to fight you. And you won’t– you won’t have to kill me.”
Haymitch can see the sobering determination returning to Y/N’s gaze. It’s the same look she had in her eye the night of the interviews, a look that could make him agree to do anything, everything she asks. She nods and lets go of Ava’s hand, standing up again.
“It was never going to be okay. From the moment they read our names, nothing was ever going to be okay.” Ava says, with an unsettling look of calm, turning her gaze upwards towards the sky.
Y/N and Felix leave her, wandering aimlessly away from the desolation of the mountain. They don’t see Ava die, hours later, after slipping into unconsciousness on a bed of snow. To the viewing room, the only sign that she isn’t just sleeping peacefully is the sound of the cannon, leaving the sponsors unusually silent as they take in her pale, lifeless image.
Haymitch drags himself upstairs, only to sits slumped against the plush couch in the District Twelve penthouse, his chest and throat tight as he watches Y/N and Felix huddled beneath the blanket from her pack, sheltering for the night under a hastily built lean-to made from fallen trees by the river. Felix shivers and cries quietly, but Y/N just holds him, her eyes wide and glassy as she stares out into the darkness. Haymitch falls asleep soon after she does, his dreams are haunted by her expression, by the morbid resignation in her face, and all the ways he might lose her tomorrow.
He wakes up to a fire in the arena. Set by the Gamemakers in the forest on the far side of the cornucopia, it kills two of the Careers and leaves the remaining two— Silk and Cassius, sprinting for the frozen lake.
Haymitch decides not to bother with the viewing room, unwilling to look away from the projection screen even long enough to take the elevator downstairs. The sponsors probably wouldn’t appreciate his wearing yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, anyway. And he knows something’s coming— there are only five tributes left now, the Careers, Y/N and Felix, and the girl from Seven. The Gamemakers will want to push them together, to force the final conflict.
His suspicions are confirmed by the appearance of the mutts. Giant, terrifying birds somewhere between eagles and hawks, with long sharp talons and hungry, hooked beaks. Y/N notices them as they circle above the forest in an ominous flock, but they’re too high in the sky to be identified for what they are— danger.
“Get out of there.” Haymitch pleads aloud in the empty suite. “Go, just go, please–”
The birds see the girl from Seven before his tributes do, perched high in a tree with her ax ready to fly as soon as she has a clear shot at Felix, one bird dives first, and the rest of the flock follows. She has no chance, screaming and flailing in vain against three of the giant beasts. The rest of the flock streak through the trees, like taloned missiles honed in on his tributes.
“Run.” Y/N grabs Felix’s coat and drags him away from the direction they’d been heading, away from where Seven’s screaming has stopped and the cannon has boomed. She shoves him ahead of her, pulling the knife from her belt. “To the lake– go!”
Even sprinting, they can’t outrun the birds, and Haymitch feels his heart pound with terror as two of them sink their talons into Y/N’s back. She screams, and Haymitch wishes he could do anything to stop it. The birds don’t attack with their beaks immediately, wings flapping in an attempt to slow her down, and the small opening allows her to twist herself out of the backpack and her coat and throw both backwards, bewildering them briefly, as she keeps running.
When they reach the treeline, Felix trips over a fallen branch hidden beneath the snow. Another bird is at his feet in an instant, its talons trapping his boots and its beak tearing at his legs. He screams and cries out, and for a second all Haymitch can see is Maysilee, picked apart by a Gamemaker’s mutated bird thirteen years ago. He feels sick, but he can’t look away— he won’t, not when Y/N is skidding to a stop by the lake and running back to him.
Her knife held ready, she swings and slashes, frantic and desperate. Blood sprays and feathers fly until the bird stills and she’s wrenching its corpse off and dragging Felix to the edge of the lake, leaving a trail of blood in their wake.
She stops by the edge of the lake and puts herself in front of him as he shakes and sobs, waiting for the birds to attack again. Instead, the flock rises from the trees and takes off, flying back towards the mountain. Haymitch feels dread settle in his stomach like a heavy stone, knowing that if the birds have served their purpose, then the final confrontation is looming.
Still, Y/N turns toward Felix and drops to her knees, hands trembling as she tries to help him. His gangly legs are a mess of ripped fabric, torn flesh, and steadily seeping blood. The boy sobs sound more like desperate gasps for air as tears stream down his face. Y/N reaches for the backpack, only to remember it’s lying on the forest floor, torn to shreds.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re gonna be fine, Felix. I’m just going to get the medicine and the bandages, okay? So just– just stay right here, and I’ll be quick, I’ll be right back, and we’re gonna— I can— you’re gonna be okay.”
The boy grabs her arm, forcing out the words between gasping sobs, looking for all the world like a frightened child. “Please don’t go.”
“Felix, I have to—”
She dodges at the last second, barely aware of the knife before it grazes her cheek and lands in the snow behind her. Then she’s standing and leaping over Felix, trying to shield him, as Cassius and Silk run towards them.
Haymitch stands too, restless and terrified as he watches her face her death. She won’t be able to take them both in at the same time, but if she throws her knife it’s one shot and then no weapon whether she misses or not. Either way, the odds are no longer in her favor.
Cassius pulls back to throw another blade, and she makes a choice, hurling her only weapon at his head. His throw skews wide, missing her, because her own knife has embedded itself in Cassius’s throat, his body convulsing as it falls, blood spurting from his neck, staining the ice a deep red. The cannon booms, and Silk screams, rushing straight for Y/N. The Career seems to forget the crossbow she’d been using since the cornucopia bloodbath in favor of pure, physical vengeance. Y/N is slow to react, eyes wide with horror at the sight of Cassius’s corpse, just managing to lift her arms in self defense before Silk slams into her like a brick wall. The force of the impact and the combined weight of their bodies is too much for the sun-warmed layer of ice on top of the lake, and they break through and plunge into the freezing water, dropping out of sight beneath the surface.
The sudden silence is deafening, and Haymitch cannot move, even to breathe, as he prays for the first time in his life, bargaining with whatever possible power exists beyond this world to endure anything, any pain, any hardship, any grief, other than this loss.
A cannon fires. And then another.
“No.” the word leaves his mouth, halting as his breath stutters on a sob, his chest constricting and his vision tunneling as the old familiar, yet newly heart wrenching despair floods in.
When her head emerges from the water, his relief feels like salvation, silent gratitude uttered to whatever force has answered his plea. As she drags herself out of the lake, her lips blue and gasping for air, he realizes that the force, the miracle, is her.
“Felix,” she coughs, spitting water onto the snow, her limbs trembling as she crawls toward the boy.
With a sinking heart, Haymitch understands what she will find. He wishes he could run to her, turn her away, protect her from this, at least. But he can’t. Instead, he can only stand aside and watch, one arm wrapped around his torso and his other hand braced over his mouth, as she reaches the still, lifeless body.
“Felix,” her voice is soft, pleading, as she leans over him to find Cassius’s knife, the one which missed her, sunk between Felix’s ribs, the boy’s open, unseeing eyes turned to the sky. “No, Felix, no, no, no, no–”
The word is broken by a sob, repeated incoherently as she weeps, lifting his listless body to wrap her arms around him, her hand held tight to the back of his head, tucking his face against her shoulder as she rocks back and forth, her words shifting to a desperate, hysterical repetition of “I’m sorry,” over and over and over again until a Capitol hovercraft is landing in front of the trees beyond, and the video feed cuts out.
Haymitch blinks rapidly, the ache in his heart giving way to a desperate urgency. His pulse pounds in his ears as he hurries around the sofa, sprinting for the penthouse door, throwing it open to find two Peacekeepers waiting.
“Haymitch Abernathy,” the one on the left says, “Come with us.”
He’s ushered down the corridor and into the elevator, and then up to the roof and onto a hovercraft. The Peacekeepers are stoic and silent and any other day he’d give them a hard time, try to rile them up a bit, but not today. His knee bounces the whole ride to the medical complex, his strides long and quick down the hallways to the Victor’s suite.
“We had to sedate her. She kept fighting, she didn’t want to leave the…” the doctor clears his throat, “The body. We’re treating her injuries currently, but it’s usually helpful to see a familiar face when waking up in recovery.”
Haymitch nods. The doctor leaves Haymitch to pace, waiting to be let into her recovery room. He runs a hand through his unwashed, unbrushed hair, wishing he’d swiped a bottle from the penthouse before he left. He’s contemplating the merits of asking a nurse where he might find a drink around here, when the doctor returns.
“You may go in.” The doctor holds the door open. “She should be waking up any moment now.”
Haymitch walks into the room, his heartbeat speeding up as he sees her– unconscious and lying in a hospital bed, but alive and real and right in front of him. It feels like his legs move on their own, carrying him to her bedside.
They’ve cleaned the blood and dirt from her skin, patched and bandaged the cut on her cheek and the gash on her arm. Over the next few days, they’ll cover the scars with special creams and ointments until they disappear completely, and all that she’ll have left are her memories. Her hair is dry, and she’s clothed in a thin white hospital gown and covered in a warm blanket, the heat in the room on high. Haymitch is glad for it, even if he’s too warm in his rumpled vest and jacket, happy to endure his own discomfort if the blue tint on her lips will go away.
Lips that part with a harsh gasp as her eyelids flutter and she sits bolt upright, hands clutching at the blankets and legs thrashing as her eyes open, her gaze wide and disoriented. Haymitch closes the remaining distance between himself and her, holding his hands out but not yet touching her, as her wild, desperate gaze locks onto him.
“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay.” He says, keeping his voice low and calm. “I’m here. You’re safe. It’s okay.”
Her chest heaves as she blinks rapidly, her knuckles going pale as she grips the blanket in her fists. She holds her jaw tight, brows furrowed, trying to hold on.
“Haymitch,” her voice is rough, broken on a sob as her control crumbles, tears welling up in her eyes and streaming down her face.
An army of Peacekeepers couldn’t stop him as he steps forward, sitting on the edge of the bed as he pulls her into his embrace. She wraps her arms around his chest, her fingers twisting into the back of his shirt. He holds one arm tight around her middle and lifts the other to the back of her head, cradling the base of her skull as she presses her face into his neck.
“It’s not okay.” She lets out shuddering gasps between the words, “It’s not okay.”
“I know, angel.” Haymitch says, his voice as soft and heavy as his heart while he holds her closer, pressing his lips to the side of her head, “I know.”
i love going back and reading ur writing it's new every time and u write aaron so good and i love him and i love u for writing it :]
as it seems gang 😈
This just put the biggest smile on my face! It brings me SO MUCH joy to know that people are still reading and enjoying “As it Seems” even though this hiatus (it’s been a year????) is going longer than I had hoped.
Regardless, I ADORE my as it seems gang and I hope you know I’m writing it all for you 💛
Summary: You were a lady's maid in love with the prince of Rohan. He was a mortal in love with an elf princess of Rivendell. You were each destined for heartbreak, and when it came, you found each other. Bonded in heartbreak over your lost lovers, you and Aragorn forge a friendship which will change each of your lives forever, seeing you through the end of war, and into a time of peace. When the time comes for you to return to your homeland of Rohan, you must discover whether a heart as devoted as his can ever truly love again.
(A/N: I rise from the dead as Aragorn from the river!! I rewatched all three LOTR films after New Years when they were re-rereleased at my local theater, and became possessed with the idea of this story. I really enjoyed writing it, and imagining how good life might be if men were as kind and honorable as Aragorn of Gondor...sigh.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!)
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, sexual content (oral sex, unprotected sex)
You took little notice of the future king of Gondor when first you met him. During his first days at the Golden Hall of Rohan, you were hardly aware of yourself, let alone the presence of a ranger, elf, dwarf, or wizard. Rather, you were consumed with grief, as you sat by the cold, pale body of your prince, your love, your Théodred.
Dead, gone, taken from this earth, taken from you. You wept enough tears for a lifetime, feeling yourself become hollowed out and haunted by the time the King – now freed from his spell – rushed in to find his son dead. He fell to his knees, grasping at the hand you did not already hold, and wept, as you had. When he looked up, you expected to be bellowed at, thrown out, or otherwise scorned, but for the first time you seemed to understand one another. You had both lost the one you most loved.
Still, you were not allowed a place in the funeral procession. You insisted on dressing Lady Éowyn for the ritual, despite her protests that you should rest. Your hands moved as if on their own, your body operating on memory as your thoughts lay elsewhere. You did not want a place in the ceremony, the rights of the wife were never yours, why should you adopt the traditions of a widow? You preferred to stand among the crowd of commoners – for that’s what you were – cloaked in black, feeling outside yourself.
Lady Éowyn’s song brought you back, into your mind and body. As the tomb shut, so did the part of yourself which whispered you could not go on. You could, and you would, for the sake of your lady, your land, and yourself. But you knew, locked away underground, your heart would forever lie, never to be uncovered again.
When the King’s order came, for the evacuation to Helm’s Deep, you felt relief. With every step you took away from his grave, you grew more yourself– or the self that you would henceforward be.
It was during the pilgrimage that you first truly noted the ranger. You could not help but notice him, considering Lady Éowyn’s blatant fascination. When she was not trailing him like a curious child, she was observing him from afar, and when she was not observing him, she was whispering to you what she had learned about him.
Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Dúnedain ranger, blessed with a long life. Heir to the throne of Gondor. Raised by elves. Gave his heart to one, an elvish princess, who loved him in return but not enough to keep from taking the journey with her people, leaving him and Middle Earth behind forever. You could see, without her reporting, that he was heartbroken, handsome, and kind. A dangerous combination for your lady to admire, she who had yet to experience the excruciating wonder of love.
You first spoke to him out of pity. Lady Éowyn had brought him another of her attempts at cooking– a fired flatbread turned nearly into charcoal. Distracted by a question from one of the many children who idolized her, she turned from him before he was forced to eat the bread under her gaze.
“Here,” you spoke softly, coming to his aid, “Give that to me.”
Bewildered, he allowed you to take the charred mess, and accepted the golden-brown piece of your own bread that you offered instead.
“Eat it, quickly, or she will notice the difference,” you whispered, dropping the burnt one to the ground and crushing it under your heel where it would undoubtedly blend in with the ground.
He watched you with surprise and what seemed like a hint of amusement, but quickly shoved the food into his mouth as Lady Éowyn turned.
“Oh!” She smiled to find you there. “My lord Aragorn, allow me to introduce my attendant, and oldest friend.”
You curtseyed and bowed your head as she relayed your name to him, biting back a smile as he struggled to finish swallowing the bread. His cheeks had a faint blush and his voice was slightly hoarse as he finally repeated your name with a respectful bow.
You wondered what he had been told about you. Though you pretended not to hear, you were well aware of the gossiping whispers– the manish maid, the prince’s whore, the Lady’s pet. You wondered if the King had warned him away from you. Lady Éowyn was again pulled away by the children, this time dragged further towards some interesting insect on the hillside.
“Thank you,” his eyes were as soft and kind as his voice when he turned to you. “For the rescue and the bread.”
“I am at your service, my lord.” You should have left it there, as formality required, but you added: “I tell her she will only get better if she practices, but that is advice she only takes when it comes to wielding a blade.”
He looked at you again with that look of surprise and amusement. “And do you wield a blade as well?”
“I should hope you never have to find out, my lord.” You replied with a smile, and then remembering your place, “Excuse me, I should return to my lady.”
“Of course.”
You did not speak again until after the battle. Though it lasted only a night, you felt as though you’d endured another lifetime. You went into the caves with Lady Éowyn, feeling oddly calm at the prospect of almost-certain defeat. Though you would have preferred to fight, as Lady Éowyn had taught you (partially for your own protection, partially so she’d have someone to practice her swordswomanship with), you knew better than to challenge Theoden’s order. You were glad of your choice when an orc found its way to the caves, having broken through the gate and slipped past the soldiers in the chaos of battle.
Lady Éowyn taunted him away from where the women and children cowered, and you leapt onto his back, driving the long dagger she had given you, the one you kept always at your belt, hidden under your skirts, repeatedly into his neck until he fell.
You had not acted with glory or acclaim in mind, you had not acted with much thought at all, but to protect the others– your people. All the same, the whispers of your name adopted a new shape. Some still believed you an unsavory creature, too wild, abnormal, disruptive. Yet still others seemed to finally see why honest, brave, dear, dear, Théodred might have come to love you.
At the celebration in the Golden Hall, many of his friends and soldiers approached you with congratulations and condolences alike, expressing admiration for your bravery and sharing stories of their love for the lost prince, of his own strength and goodwill. It was the sweetest sort of torture. For while they spoke, he lived, in the gleam of their eyes and the smile on their face and the still-fresh memory shared. And when they moved along, leaving you to your solitude at the edge of the hall, he died a new death, all over again.
You slipped out of the hall, into the night, and set yourself down on the veranda overlooking the wandering hills of the kingdom. The grief settled new and heavy in your chest, a quiet kind of pain burrowing itself into your body as you remembered his face and his voice and his hands and his embrace. You remembered racing your horses to the river, walking through the village together, talking for hours, laying under the stars on nights such as this. You sat until the sounds of cheer faded into silent slumber and quiet whispers.
“Will you not sleep?”
You jumped, even at the softness of Aragorn’s voice. He stepped so lightly, moved so silently, you did not hear him approach.
“I apologize, I did not mean to startle you.” His expression was regretful. You began to stand, intending to curtsey, but he held out his hands to stop you. “Please, stay. I am not fond of formality.”
“Nor am I.”
“I have noticed.” He smiled, and you felt strangely proud, rather than the shame that you ought to have felt at such an admission. “May I join you?”
“By all means.”
He settled down to sit beside you, his presence quiet and calm. You sat for some minutes together, watching the light beyond the mountains beginning to lighten with the coming dawn.
“You did not answer my question.”
“I’m sorry,” you turned to him, your eyes adjusting from having looked so long at a distance. “I have forgotten what it was.”
“I wondered why you do not rest.” He said, “It has been a long night and day for all, but particularly for you, having exercised your strength and valor in the attack.”
“I could ask you the same.” You returned, “And with greater reason– I merely slew one orc. You, my lord, must have fought hundreds yesterday, and all after having survived a deadly fall. If either of us should not be avoiding sleep, it is you and not I.”
He was silent for a moment, unable to argue, until:
“It is not sleep I avoid,” he admitted, “But the dreams that come when I do.”
Somehow, though he gave little indication, you understood– he did not dream of injury or terror or battle, or the things of his everyday life that would haunt another’s sleep, but rather of the soft, wonderful, lost things of his love. You’ve had the same dreams, every time you’ve slept since Théodred’s funeral.
“I do not mind the dreams.” You said, “It’s the waking from them that I dislike.”
You heard his short exhale– as if in realization.
“Yes, exactly.” He falls silent again for a while. And then: “Were you betrothed to him?”
He had been told, then, something of the truth. From whom, however, you were not sure.
“No.” Your answer was quiet, “No, he would not have married me. For all he loved me, I would never have been allowed to become his queen.”
“Why not?”
You could not help but laugh, though the sound carried little humor. “You and I may have little care for formality, my lord, but many others do. It is the law, in some cases, and in Rohan the heir to the throne cannot marry an untitled, common woman.”
“You are without title, perhaps, but I doubt anyone would call you common.”
“I can only hope you intend a compliment.”
“I– Forgive me.” he seemed flustered for a moment, “I meant no offense. I only mean there are few who would take on an orc with nothing but a dagger. Man or woman. You’ve shown an uncommon amount of courage and heart, was what I should have said.”
Then it was your turn to be flustered, grateful in the low light that he could not see you blush at the praise.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Aragorn.” He corrected, “As neither of us stand on formality, when among friends, at least, I would be called by my own name.”
You smiled. “Are we friends, then?”
“If you will accept me. You seem a valuable friend to have.”
“As do you, Aragorn.”
His name felt odd in your mouth at first, but not in a bad way, just unfamiliar. He smiled at your use of it, and you decided you would just have to grow accustomed to saying it aloud. You both turned back to the horizon, where the orange and pink of sunrise were just beginning to show beyond the mountains.
“It is a strange thing,” he spoke again, his voice tinged with sadness, “Loving someone when you know, all the while, they will never be able to give themselves to you as fully as you give yourself to them.”
“For something so foolish, it felt truly noble.” You smiled ruefully, “What is a more righteous motivation than love? What pain, even inevitable, is not worth a fleeting taste of happiness? I should think my former self ridiculous now, but I cannot seem to regret it.”
“No, I would not change it, if given the chance.”
You hesitated a moment, holding the question on your tongue before giving over to your curiosity. “What was her name?”
“Arwen.”
You repeated it softly. “How long has it been since you lost her?”
“A matter of weeks.”
“Does it get any easier?” You asked, trying to keep the desperation from your voice. “This pain?”
“I doubt it will ever fade entirely,” he said, “But yes, I believe it does.”
“If there is ever anything I can do, any service or favor, to aid you, do not hesitate to ask.” You said, “I find I can bear it more easily when I am working to ensure the safety and happiness of my friends.”
“Lady Éowyn is one such friend, I imagine.”
“The very best. I have known her since I was a small girl, when I was brought to attend to her after she and Lord Éomer came to live here.”
“She speaks highly of you.”
“I am happy to serve her, though I think of her much as I would think of a sister.” You mused, and then turned to face him more fully. Taking in your more serious expression, he held your gaze, listening closely. “To that end– I ask that you are careful with her. She admires you deeply, Aragorn, and if you encourage her, it will quickly become love. I suspect, if you and I are alike, that you cannot love another as you loved Arwen, that your heart will never fully be your own again, never whole to give to another. You are an honorable, kind man, Aragorn, by no means unworthy. But Éowyn deserves someone who will worship her, devote himself completely to her, love her with all his being. You and I well know the agony of loving someone who cannot return that love in equal measure. If I can spare my lady that pain, I must try.”
“I did not have the pleasure of knowing Prince Thèodred,” he said, though it was not the response you expected, “But he grows in my esteem the more I know of you.”
“How so?” You looked at him, finding his features soft in the glow of dawn as he turned to look out at the mountains again.
“He must have been the very best of men to earn the love of a woman such as you,” he spoke softly, and then added: “I will discourage Éowyn as gently as I can.”
You were spared the expectation of a response by the burst of noise and chaos from inside, where you would soon find Pippin meddling in matters he should not, but you knew, as both you and Aragorn leapt up to provide aid, that this friendship would change the course of your life.
Indeed, for having spoken so little yet said so much to one another, from that moment on you seemed to understand each other. He knew, somehow, your ulterior motive for accompanying Lady Éowyn to the encampment. He caught you, stashing away the armor and helmets which would conceal your and Lady Éowyn’s identities when you rode out with the Rohirrim on the day of the battle.
“I hoped I would have the honor of seeing your skill with a blade.”
You startled again, but this time when you turned to face him, he seemed more amused than apologetic.
“King Theoden does not share your hope, so I trust–”
“I promise not to breathe a word,” he held a hand over his heart, “So long as you promise to return in one piece.”
“I will do my best.” You noticed then that he was fully dressed, with his horse at his side, despite the late hour of night, “And will you do the same?”
He bowed his head. “I will try.”
You nodded your acknowledgement, and expected him to be on his way– except he lingered a moment, watching you carefully.
“Is something the matter?”
He rested his hand on the hilt of the rather large sword at his hip. “You did not ask where I was going.”
“I thought you would have told me, if it was something I needed to know.”
“You do not question my leaving on the eve of battle.”
“I don’t know why or where you go, Aragorn, but I do not question your integrity. If you leave, you leave for a reason. And you have promised to return. Anything more would likely lead me to worry over things which are not in my power to control.”
He laughed softly at that, his face breaking into an utterly disarming smile.
“If only half the world shared your view of things,” he shook his head, “We would not have so many problems.”
“Perhaps.” You could not help but smile in return, “Or perhaps we would only have different problems.”
He hummed, and then his smile faded as he seemed to remember the severity of the moment, and whatever task it was that drew him away. You thought he would take his leave, but instead he moved closer and took your hand in both of his own. His skin was rough and calloused, but his hands were warm and his touch was gentle.
“Take care,” he said, squeezing your hand, and saying your name softly. And with that, he withdrew, mounting his horse and urging it through the crowd of soldiers and tents.
Much as you respected him, much as you valued your newly-forged friendship, you had little time to think of Aragorn until the sight of him, charging into battle with an army of specters at his command brought him sharply into focus once again.
You and Lady Éowyn rode into battle as planned, with the young hobbit Merry added to your clandestine force. You charged with less fear than you imagined, consumed as you were with adrenaline and a deep desire to honor your lost love, to save the land and the people he had died trying to protect. You slashed with your sword and bashed with your shield, shouting out to Lady Éowyn to maneuver with you as you circled and flanked the orcs together.
When the Oliphaunts joined the fray, you found yourself separated from Éowyn and Merry, veering in the opposite direction from them to escape being crushed under the beast’s massive foot. You continued fighting on your own, galloping quickly between the beast’s legs and slashing at its skin, trying to slow its approach. Moments later, your horse was felled by enemy arrows, and you just managed to jump off and hit the ground in a rough roll before your horse crushed you with its weight.
You narrowly escaped a blade to the face as you lifted your shield and jumped to your feet, striking and parrying against an orc twice your size. He drove you backwards as you dodged, until your leg caught on a corpse and sent you tumbling onto your back. You just managed to raise your sword, stabbing him through the stomach as he lifted his own blade above his head, preparing to bring it down in a final blow. Unable to pull your sword free, and with his dead weight tipping forward, you had no choice but to relinquish the weapon and roll out of the way.
Before you could push him over and try to get your sword back, another orc ran at you with a shrill battle cry. You hurried for your dagger, resigning yourself to an unfair fight against his razor-edged weapon. But just before your blades clashed, he was quite literally sliced in half.
Aragorn had done it, without breaking his stride and without noticing either the orc he had killed or the friend he had saved, as he continued running. You stood still, shocked not only by his sudden appearance, but more so by the horde of green phantoms battling beside him. You pushed your helmet from your head in an effort to see the vision before you, unobstructed and real, as the armies of Sauron were defeated in a matter of minutes.
As the field began to grow quiet, you turned and began a frantic search, your heart plummeting as you caught sight of a familiar head of blonde hair lying motionless on the ground. You ran to her, leaping over bodies and debris until you fell to your knees at her side, lifting her into your arms. You saw the King behind her, pinned beneath his horse. His eyes were open, unseeing, already dead. Your stomach turned as you lifted Éowyn in your arms, noting her closed eyes and still-pink cheeks.
“My lady?” You called, touching the side of her face, “Please you must wake up. Éowyn, you cannot leave me too.”
She was not bleeding, but her arm was bent and cradled against her chest, marked with strange black lines. Leaning your head down and pressing your ear to her chest, you could hear the faint beat of her heart. You turned and shouted as loud as your voice could carry, to anyone who might listen.
“Help! A healer! She needs a healer! Someone, please help!”
A woman’s voice was, thankfully, more noticeable among the cries of the wounded and dying. Éomer came first, crying out in grief and betrayal. Aragorn followed soon after, calmly instructing Éomer to help him carry her, redirecting the now-King of Rohan’s anguish into purpose.
You trailed behind, reporting what little you knew of her injuries. Entering the gates of Gondor, taken to the healers’ hall, you listened and aided Aragorn as he treated her, explaining in his calm, quiet way that her injuries proved she had slain the Witch King, an unbeatable foe, and in doing so, had demonstrated more valor and bravery than any man. Éomer, at least, remained silent and kept whatever disapproval he felt for her presence on the battlefield silent, though it was not hidden from his expression.
When Aragorn and Éomer withdrew with the other leaders, you sat by her side, dabbing a cool, clean cloth to her forehead and speaking soft reassuring words as she slept. You told her of your pride in her victory, of your belief in her strength, of your need for her recovery.
You were in the midst of describing the elegant, high-ceilinged hall she lay in, when Aragorn returned. His face was washed of grime, his hair held back from his face, and his torn, dirtied ranger garb changed for the emblem of Gondor.
“We will ride for the Black Gate.” He told you. “My friend climbs the peak of Mount Doom seeking to destroy the Ring of Power. I have sent a message to Sauron, a falsehood which will divert his attention from my friend to us.”
“His attention as well as the full force of Mordor’s power.” You pointed out. “What of your phantom army?”
“They were released of their bond to this plane.” He shook his head. “If my friend does not succeed, this will have all been in vain regardless.”
“If he is your friend, he is surely capable.” Your assurance was not an empty one– you felt the certainty in your chest. “What can I do?”
“I would have you ride with me.”
“But I am not Rohirrim. And I cannot pretend this time–”
“Not as one of the Rohirrim. I would have you by my side, as a King’s hand. A warrior of Gondor.” He said. “Though if you wish to stay, to remain and watch over Lady Éowyn, I understand. We face almost certain death, yet I would– your presence would be a great benefit.”
You stood, and bowed your head. “I will go with you.”
A hint of a smile, soft and sad, played at his lips. He nodded. “Thank you.”
You were fitted with a vest bearing the white tree, as well as given a new horse and sword. So attired and mounted, you joined the contingent of remaining soldiers. You nearly took a place among the other soldiers of Gondor, until caught your eye and tilted his head for you to join him.
Feeling the heat of a small army of curious gazes at your back, you urged your horse to a stop at Aragorn’s right, between him and where Éomer rode with Merry. You kept your back straight and your gaze ahead, refusing to let your self-consciousness at this new position sway you from facing the battle ahead.
Indeed, as you began to ride, feeling the power of the animal beneath you and the wind in your face, the matter of custom and the consequences of breaking it no longer mattered. When the gate opened and Sauron’s forces surrounded you, all that mattered was fighting for the future of Middle Earth.
And that meant protecting Aragorn.
When the troll shouldered forward, aiming its massive sword at him, you could not let him stand alone. You cut down an orc, and then yet another to reach him, lifting your blade to block as he dodged, and then the two of you began an odd sort of dance, turning and whirling around each other as you traded blows against the troll. Ultimately, you killed it, scrambling up the armor at its back and slitting its throat at the place between its helmet and its armor.
Its body fell, and you with it, but Aragorn helped you up. He spared you a nod of gratitude, which you returned, and then your dance continued, the two of you pressed largely back-to-back, turning and striking out in an arc as more enemies approached.
Soon enough, though, it ended. His friend succeeded, and the mountain erupted in a great explosion, the eye of Sauron collapsing, and his armies retreated or otherwise found themselves swallowed by the fissures opening up in the earth of Mordor.
As the rhythm of battle faltered and slowed, as your allies cheered victory, you began to realize something wasn’t quite right. A terrible pain made itself known to you, cutting through the waning adrenaline, and you touched a hand to your left side, just above your hip. Your palm came away a bright, wet red.
The realization of it, more than the injury itself, left your ears ringing and your knees weak. You were dimly aware of Aragorn turning to you with a joyous smile, his expression fading as you looked at him with a distant, blank expression. The last thing you remember was him reaching for you as you fell.
When you woke, you were not in the healers’ hall. You lay on the softest bed you’d ever felt, though the comfort was a small offset from the throbbing ache at your side. Someone touched a cool cloth to your head, and you turned toward the soothing sensation with a quiet noise, blinking your heavy eyelids open.
“Thank goodness, you are awake.”
You recognized Èowyn’s voice before your bleary vision cleared enough to focus on her. She smiled down at you, tears shining in her eyes. In the next moment, she turned and spoke to someone standing beyond your view.
“Send for the King.”
You tried to swallow, finding your throat dry as the dunes. She seemed to understand, and helped you carefully to sit up, lifting the edge of a cup of water to your lips. With the aid of water, cool and refreshing, you found your voice again.
“Are you well, my lady?”
“Such a question, from one who has just woken from grievous injury,” she shook her head, but continued smiling, “Now that you are alright, I am perfectly well.”
“Your arm?”
“Marked forever, I’m afraid,” she pushed up her sleeve to show the black lines you’d seen before, “But otherwise healed.”
“How long—”
You could not finish your question, as the sound of rapid footsteps echoed down the corridor beyond whatever room this was, drawing Èowyn’s gaze from you. You turned your head that way, in time to see Aragorn rush through the doorway.
His eyes found yours, gaze hopeful and then relieved as he saw you sitting up and able to look back at him. He exhaled a deep sigh, and came to kneel at your side, such that you were now flanked by your dearest friends.
“Thank the Valar,” he reached for your hand, brushing a soft kiss to the back of your palm as he searched your gaze. “How do you feel?”
“As though I’ve been stabbed.” You smiled gently, “But well enough.”
“You have been asleep for three days.” Èowyn said. “We were beginning to worry you would never wake.”
“I suppose I needed the rest.” You admitted, thinking about what little sleep you’d had in the days before the battle. “I am sorry for frightening you.”
“Do not apologize,” Aragorn squeezed your hand gently, “We are simply glad to see you recovering at last.”
“Your Grace, pardon me.” A voice spoke from the door, and you saw a squire in the doorway, looking to Aragorn.
“I must go,” Aragorn said to you, getting to his feet again, “But I will look in on you again soon.”
“Do not rush yourself. Surely I won’t have gone anywhere.”
He smiled, and to your surprise, bent to kiss your forehead. The touch of his lips sent a comforting warmth through your body, like being draped in a soft blanket.
“I hope not.” He said, and then took his leave.
Over the coming days, you slowly recovered. You took sips of water and broth, and then bites of bread as your strength and appetite returned. Èowyn held your arm as you walked slowly around the Citadel of Gondor, taking longer and longer routes each day.
You were often joined by Faramir, young Captain of Gondor, and clearly enamored with your friend. You liked him, he was kind and steadfast, and clearly prepared to worship Èowyn as she deserved. You found excuses to sit for a while by the white tree and rest, while they wandered away on their own. It was soothing to your own heartbreak, in a way, to be assured of your friend’s happiness in love.
Aragorn visited you often, but never for more than a few moments at a time, occupied with the business of rebuilding his newly-claimed kingdom. However short, his visits always left you in better spirits.
The day before his coronation, you were finally able to take a proper bath, having been rid of your bandages the day before. You washed yourself and inspected the long, red scar above your hip before dressing in one of the gowns provided in the wardrobe of your room. It, like all the others that hung there, was finer than anything you’d ever owned before, and seemed to you more fit for a lady such as Èowyn, than for yourself.
As you brushed through the wet tangle of your hair, a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” you called, setting down the brush and standing to see Aragorn stepping inside. “I wondered when I would see you today.”
“I apologize, it’s been a busy morning.”
You waved your hand. “You are a busy King. You have no obligation to me.”
“I disagree.” He smiled softly. “That is why I came to see you.”
He looked so unlike the man you first met, dressed in fine robes, his hair and face clean of dirt and grime, yet he still looked like himself. This is who he will be, you supposed. Aragorn King.
“I wondered about your plans to return to Rohan.” He continued, “Faramir says he will go with Èowyn after they are married, and Èomer comes to Gondor for the coronation and wedding alone, before he returns to his own throne. Now that you are recovered, I wondered if you desired to return home with them.”
You faltered, hesitant in your response. You knew, without consideration, that you did not wish to return to Rohan. Much as you loved Èowyn, much as you respected Èomer, you felt lighter and more yourself these last weeks in Gondor than you ever did in Rohan. Whatever home there was, lay with the people, rather than the place.
“If you do not wish to return,” Aragorn continued in your silence, watching you carefully, “I offer you a place here, among my court. I will need advisors I can trust, and I am in particular need of an expert on Rohan. I asked you to ride with me as the King’s hand, and I would have you keep that position if you choose. You could keep these rooms, or choose new ones in the Citadel, though you would be free to travel as you saw fit, and you would be afforded the respect and rank of one occupying your title.”
A weight settled in your chest, warm and certain— a debt of gratitude. You stepped forward, closer to where he still stood in the doorway, and knelt.
“My king,” You bowed your head, “I pledge my service, my honor, and my life to you–”
His hand on your chin, lifting your face to meet his gaze as he stood above you stopped your oath short.
“I need only your continuing friendship.”
“You have it.”
He placed his hands on your arms, guiding you to stand.
“You must only accept my offer if it is what you truly wish. I would not have you stay here out of some perceived duty.”
“I wish to stay, and I wish to aid you in whatever way I can.” You promised.
He smiled, finally, and you felt joy light your body from within.
~
Spring arrives like a long exhale, the sun warming the air as a breeze blows across the land and the flowers begin to bloom once more. The season has come and gone three times already since the end of the war, but this one feels different– rather than signaling the end of the cold darkness, this time the sun shines on a new beginning.
Minas Tirith, rebuilt to the last stone and restored to its long-lost glory, shines upon the mountainside, illuminated by the rays of sunshine. The people of the city can feel its blessing, throwing open windows and pausing at the tower edges to tilt their faces up into the light, remembering again the simplest joys of life. The inhabitants of the citadel are no exception.
You emerge from the halls of the citadel, taking a deep breath of your own. Given a short reprieve from your duties, you take a moment to look out at the mountains of Mordor, once so dark and foreboding, now spotted with green and the glint of running rivers in the distance, through the elegant, twisting branches of the White Tree. It won’t bloom for weeks yet, but the warmth in the air heralds the beginnings of buds in the coming days.
“I should have known I would find you here.” Aragorn says, smiling in amusement as you startle at his sudden presence.
“Your Majesty,” you curtsey and bow your head before rising with a small smile of your own, keeping your address formal with so many guards nearby. “I should have known you would not shed your ranger’s stealth, even on such a day as today.”
“And what such a day is today?”
“A peaceful one, your grace.”
He hums, looking out at the view you were admiring, drumming his fingers absently over the hilt of Andúril at his side. You have not seen him since this morning, when you took your morning ride across the fields together, as you do every day before breakfast. He has been in meetings with other advisors since, while you attended to some business in the lower city.
“Will you walk with me?” He asks, “As it is such a day, I could use the fresh air and your counsel, if you will give it.”
“I cannot control the air, my king,” you say. “But I would never deny you my counsel.”
Aragorn sets a slow, steady pace around the courtyard, and you fall into step by his side. The occasional gust of wind, sharper and colder at this height, pleasantly offsets the heat of the sun.
“I think of riding to Rohan,” he says, “An unofficial visit, staying there three days at the most, just myself and you, my lady, should you desire to go.”
You have not returned to Rohan – to your home – since you left it four years earlier. You know much of the goings on in the kingdom from the letters Lady Éowyn writes to you, of her brother’s leadership, her marriage to kind Faramir, of the hope and life returning to your people. And, most recently, of news that she will soon bear a child, and bring joy to the Golden Hall once more. She writes of events you are sad to miss, stories which fill you with nostalgia for your own happy youth, but at the same time, reminds you of your grief. You cannot imagine joy in the Golden Hall in Thèodred’s absence, nor do you desire to face his grave again.
But, as you turn your face to study Aragorn’s profile, the neat trim of his beard, his long hair pulled back from his kind face, just beginning to show a few hairs of gray, you consider why he should ask you to return with him. The weight of the crown is heavy, you know, especially for one who felt he did not deserve to wear it, and grows perhaps heavier as his old life fades into this royal existence. His fellowship, his friends, are all gone– except for you.
The hobbits returned to the Shire, Gimli to the mines, Legolas to the forest, and while they visit, it is not the same as trekking across the land together. Gandalf came for one last goodbye, just a month ago, before taking his final journey to the Grey Havens. His departure brings enough pain on its own, but yet adds a reminder of Aragorn’s greatest loss— his own love having left for those same lands. You should not be surprised, then, that he seeks the comfort of old friends and battle comrades, that he should want to visit them without the pomp and circumstance of diplomacy, that he should wish your support and company in the journey.
“I would go with you anywhere you asked, my king.”
He stops and turns to you, placing a gentle hand on your arm. His soft eyes, full of care and concern, search your face.
“I would not ask you to endure pain, or push yourself beyond the bounds of reason to serve my whims. I only ask because I would always rather have you near, but I could bear the separation if you would not choose to go.”
“The pain is unavoidable.” You dare to cover his hand with yours, “But now there is joy as well– of friendship, and of new life to come. And your company will, as it always has, soothe me and give me strength.”
He smiles softly, warmly, and squeezes your arm. “Just as yours brings me peace and comfort.”
“Then it is decided: we shall ride to Rohan.”
Over the three-day journey, you and Aragorn speak little. The silence is not full of tension, but rather the quiet that falls between two people who don’t need words to speak to one another. He keeps pace with you, knowing to follow the natural-born rider to her home. At night, making camp under the stars and the shadow of the Misty Mountains, you move around each other like practiced dancers, building the fire, unrolling the bedding, staring up at the stars.
You watch him come alive in a way you haven’t seen in many years, appearing relaxed and at ease among the wilderness. You feel the energy of the air and the ground beneath your feet, but with every step closer to Rohan, your body grows heavy with dread.
When the Golden Hall comes into view, settled atop the distant hill, a shiver runs down your spine. Memories flash through your mind— of a golden-haired youth sharing your first kiss, of laughter and careless joy, of whispered confessions and secret comforts.
“Do you wish to turn back?”
Aragorn’s voice brings you from your thoughts as you realize you’ve slowed your horse to a stop. You look at your friend, seeing nothing but concern and care in his gaze.
“No,” you shake your head, “No, I’ll be alright.”
“At any moment, if you change your mind, we will go at once.”
You give him a soft, grateful smile, and nod your thanks. Before you can change your mind, you click your tongue and urge your horse forward.
Èowyn and Faramir stand waiting for you at the edge of the village, and you are dismounting your horse before it comes to a stop in your rush to embrace her. She holds you tight, crushing you against her body, despite your concern for the noticeable swell of her stomach.
“I have missed you fiercely.” She says, pulling back to look at you.
“And I you.”
Aragorn and Faramir clasp each other’s arms, sharing greetings and grins before you swap, wrapping your arms around Faramir while Aragorn takes Èowyn’s hands and kisses her cheeks.
“We are glad to see you,” Faramir says, holding your upper arms. “She would have run from the Golden Hall as soon as she saw your horses approach, but for my insistence we walked.”
“I don’t doubt it.” You smile, looking at your longest friend, “Do you remember, Èowyn, when I told you not to run from the stable to the Hall, but you did not listen? You tripped and fell and went without a front tooth for weeks.”
She laughs, “I did not take to being ordered about by anyone other than myself.”
“You still don’t.”
“Nor should she.” Faramir agrees.
“Shall we walk to the Hall?” Èowyn asks, “My brother is eager to see you as well.”
“After you,” Aragorn gestures, and you follow them up the hill, leading your horses.
Your heart begins to pound as you approach the burial ground, seeing the earthen mounds of each tomb looming ahead. Èowyn speaks of something as she walks in front, holding her husband’s arm, but you do not hear. You force your gaze ahead, refusing to look as you pass.
Aragorn’s hand, warm and reassuring, settles against your back. You glance at him, managing a small smile, as the ringing in your ears dissipates somewhat. He holds a silent question in his gaze, and you shake your head, feeling more yourself as the graveyard falls behind, and the Golden Hall looms closer.
“I’m alright.” You murmur.
He nods, running his hand along your spine once before withdrawing his touch.
Your horses are taken to the stable and your bags to your rooms, and then you follow Èowyn and Faramir into the throne room. Èomer sits, talking with a few of the Rohirrim, but stands and dismisses them as soon as you enter.
To your surprise, he greets you first. While an informal visit, you expected Aragorn to receive the honor of the King’s greeting before you.
And yet Èomer takes your hand and kisses it, saying, “I’m glad to see you returned home, my lady.”
He leaves you to your bewilderment as he embraces Aragorn, clapping him on the back and welcoming him to Rohan.
You shortly excuse yourself to change out of your riding trousers into something finer. Èowyn accompanies you to your rooms— her former bedroom.
“How odd to return here as a guest, instead of a servant,” you muse, “To call this room my own for a time when I used to sleep on the floor of your dressing room. And what a strange greeting from your brother!”
“Strange in what way?”
“I’m sure he has never addressed me with such warmth before in my life. And to do so first, before greeting the King of Gondor— if Aragorn were not so gracious, it could be considered a grave slight.”
“Perhaps Èomer could not always address you with the warmth he felt for you.”
You hum, uncertain, but unwilling to dwell too heavily on the consequences of your change in position. You turn to your friend and a more pleasant topic.
“Now, tell me everything I have not already learned from your letters.”
You talk of her health, her excitement for the child to come, her love of Faramir, her time spent training the Rohirrim, her continuing nightmares of the creature she slew, her fears that the peace will not last, and her joy to see you again, losing track of time until Faramir appears in the doorway to summon you both to dinner.
You are again surprised to be seated directly next to Èomer, on the right side, between him and Èowyn, while Aragorn sits on the left, between Èomer and Faramir. And again, Èomer is far more attentive to you than you recall in his past behavior, asking how you’ve been enjoying Minas Tirith and what your duties entail as the King’s counsel. You converse politely, telling him you feel quite at home in Gondor, that you spend your days reading about Gondor and Rohan’s histories, speaking with scouts and knights, and advising Aragorn.
When he asks if you missed Rohan while you were away, your voice sticks in your throat for a moment before you say:
“I have missed my friends dearly, and always think fondly of the times when I was happy here.”
Èowyn takes your hand and squeezes it gently, smiling at your answer.
“I hope you will be happy here again, my lady.” Her brother adds.
“Thank you, King Èomer.”
You glance past him, wondering if Aragorn had heard any of your conversation, and see your king engaged in some discussion or another with Faramir, probably about Gondor and how the kingdom has fared in the captain’s absence. You find, though he sits mere feet away from you, that you miss Aragorn. You have not spoken to him directly since before you and Èowyn went to your rooms. You’ve grown accustomed, over the years, to seeing him and speaking with him many times throughout the day, every day, even for just a moment at a time. You are not exactly lost without the contact, but you do feel…put off.
It’s a relief when he knocks on your door later that night, as you are preparing for bed.
“Come in,” you call, wrapping a shawl around your shoulders to cover the skin left exposed by your nightgown. You can’t help your smile when he steps through the doorway. Aragorn is also dressed for bed– in a loose shirt with its ties undone at the neck, falling open to show his collarbone and upper chest. His feet are bare, as well, which you find strangely endearing. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in an age, though it’s only been a few hours.”
“I understand.” He steps closer, and his eyes are soft as they search your face in the gentle glow of the few candles lit around your room. “I wanted to see how you were.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, letting out a deep breath. “Unfortunately, that is not a simple task.”
He settles next to you, quiet and calm, as always, ready to listen.
“It is easier, I think, returning as something other than I was when I left. I much prefer who I am now to who I was then. And yet…” You begin, trying to find the right words to describe your feelings, “So little has changed here. The rooms, the traditions, the people, they are all the same. Apart from the fact that he is not here. And I don’t– I don’t mourn him anymore. I haven’t, not for years, but it feels wrong somehow to be here without him. Perhaps it is a weakness. I spent many happy years here before he loved me, but somehow I cannot do it now.”
“Having loved and lost is not the same as having never loved at all. It is not a weakness, but a strength, that you did so and yet remain kind and true and brave.” He speaks softly, taking your hand and tracing the lines of your palm with a calloused fingertip, “Your role has changed, yes, but these hands are the same, your heart is the same, your soul is the same as it ever was.”
“But I feel…so much more than I was. Like I am truly whatever self I have always been. I am satisfied with my life in a way I never could have been before.” You sigh, unable to find the right words, “I know I wouldn’t feel this way if he had lived.”
“Perhaps it is a comfort to know you would not have known of this alternative, had he lived.” Aragorn offers, “It is a path not taken, and therefore not known.”
“You’re right, of course.” You let out a soft huff of laughter, “Dwelling on it will only make me unhappy, no matter how I think of what could have been. I had better dwell on what could be.”
“Anything is possible.” He agrees, squeezing your hand. “You yourself are an example.”
You turn your head to smile at him with affection. “As are you, my king.”
He holds your gaze with an expression you cannot read– not closed or guarded, but rather heart-wrenchingly open, soft and intimate as he looks at you. For a moment, you feel yourself drawn closer to him, as if by magical force, urging you to press your body against his own. Until he drops his gaze to your hand, still held in his.
“You should rest,” he says, and then lifts your hand so that he can brush a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “I wish you a peaceful sleep.”
“You as well,” you say, feeling strangely light-headed as he stands and moves to the door again. “Aragorn–”
He turns back, his hand on the frame.
“Would you like to ride with me in the morning? As we usually do?”
His smile is soft, but his eyes are delighted as he nods. “I would like nothing more.”
“Excellent.” You return his smile. “Good night, then, Aragorn.”
“Good night, nin rís.”
He closes the door before you can ask what the elvish words mean, but you resolve to find out during your ride in the morning. Except, as dawn begins to break and you make your way to the stables to meet him, you find you two are not the only ones preparing for a morning ride.
“Good morrow,” Èomer calls out your name, already saddling his horse in the stall next to where Aragorn is greeting his own, “Perhaps you’d like to join us on a morning ride.”
You meet Aragorn’s gaze, and he gives you an apologetic look. Knowing Èomer as you do, you have little doubt Aragorn was given much choice in the matter of the other king’s inclusion.
“I would, yes.” You make your way to your own horse, “Thank you, King Èomer.”
“Oh, just call me by my name,” Èomer scoffs, leaving his horse to join you in your stall. “It’s all fine and good to be formal at the banquet, but we’ve known each other since we were running around bathing in the lake in nothing but our skins. I’m no more king to you, than you are servant to me.”
He winks, and then sets his hands at your waist, lifting you up into the saddle. You’re taken aback by all of it– his words, the wink, and the sudden physical handling, such that a furious blush rises to your face and you can hardly look at anything but your horse’s mane, despite hearing Èomer chuckle as he returns to mount his steed. You glance at Aragorn, watching him lift himself gracefully into the saddle, though his expression is guarded and his eyes troubled. You don’t know why, but you feel a pang of guilt strike through your chest.
Èomer leads the way, and you follow, painfully aware of Aragorn’s silent presence at your side. Èomer keeps a running commentary as you ride, pointing out all the landmarks and places of note in his memory. He has either forgotten or doesn’t care that Aragorn has visited Rohan over many more decades than Èomer has lived, and likely knows the terrain even better than the king himself.
“Here is the favorite meeting spot for you and my cousin, if memory serves.” Èomer says as you approach the river, and your stomach churns. “I used to cover for Théodred with my uncle. You hold many fond memories of this place, I imagine.”
He addresses the final sentence to you, adding a clear second meaning to his words. Again, your face feels unbearably warm as blood begins to rush in your ears. You can feel Aragorn looking at you, but you cannot bring yourself to return his gaze.
“I am growing tired,” you say, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. “Perhaps I will go back.”
“I am happy to accompany you, if Aragorn wishes to continue riding.” Èomer looks to the king of Gondor, but Aragorn has already turned his horse and guided it to your side.
Your friend’s voice is measured, but with a certain edge you’re not used to hearing as he says: “I think it best that we turn back now.”
Back at the Golden Hall, you feel no better, your body restless and your mind disoriented by the emotions battling in your chest. As if sensing your distress, Aragorn places a firm hand on your lower back, grounding and stabilizing you with his touch just beyond the entrance to the banquet hall.
“Perhaps you should lie down,” he suggests, “I will have breakfast brought to you in your rooms.”
“I will bring it myself,” Èomer asserts.
“That’s not necessary, truly, I think if I just sit and have something to eat–”
“Nonsense! You look as though you will faint any second.” Èomer argues, striding over and lifting you into his arms without another word.
“King Èomer!” You let out an embarrassingly youthful shriek of surprise as he begins to carry you down the corridor, past many wide-eyed, gawking courtiers and servants. “I can walk perfectly well!”
You squirm and twist to look over his shoulder at Aragorn, who remains where he stood, eerily still and with the same guarded look on his face.
“Whatever is going on–brother! What are you doing?” Èowyn, alerted by the ruckus, hurries around the corner from the banquet hall and chases after you, catching up as Èomer shoulders into your room and deposits you onto the bed. “What is the meaning of this brutish behavior?”
“Brutish? I’m being helpful!” He argues, “The lady could barely stand for fatigue.”
“That is not true.” You sit up and swing your legs back over the side of the bed. “I was merely tired. I am perfectly well, apart from a bruised ego after that display.”
“Brother!” Èowyn punches him hard enough in the arm the sight makes you flinch. “You have embarrassed my dearest friend!”
“I was being chivalric!”
“Perhaps your chivalry is misplaced.” Aragorn’s voice is uncharacteristically cold from where he stands in the doorway. He softens as he moves to your bedside, holding out a goblet and a heavenly-looking piece of bread. “Here, some water and something to eat.”
“Thank you,” you accept them, taking a sip of water and then stopping short of biting into the bread when you feel three pairs of eyes all watching you at once. You sigh, and then exclaim. “I am fine!”
“Out, at once!” Èowyn ushers her brother toward the door, “You only distress her further, you oaf.”
“But–”
“Call on her again later. Leave her be now.”
Their voices fade down the corridor, and you are left with at least a bit of peace.
“I will leave you to rest,” Aragorn says, making for the door as well, and leaving your heart leaping with desperation.
“Aragorn, wait–” To your relief, he does so, immediately. “I don’t– I’m not sure what has gotten into Èomer.”
“I am quite sure.” His gaze goes somewhere distant and his voice is cold again, but only for a moment before his eyes find yours, and he is warm and gentle once more. “But you need not worry about that now. Just rest, nin rís.”
Again, he leaves you with those words, but no understanding of their meaning or significance. You eat the bread, feeling sullen and agitated, finish the water, and then pace out of your room, seeking fresh air and female company.
You find Èowyn on the veranda, in her favorite spot overlooking the village, and entice her to walk with you. You consider telling her about the morning ride and the elvish words Aragorn uses with you, but decide against it. Èomer is her brother, and she could not be impartial in her advice. As for the elvish, it feels too personal to share with another, despite your curiosity.
Instead, you tell her about Minas Tirith, and all you have learned from making it your home over these last four years. You tell her of the library, where you would live if you could, of the secret passageways you’ve discovered in the Citadel, and your favorite tea shop in the city, with the best view of the mountains beyond. The walk and the conversation do you much good, and this time Èowyn tires before you. You accompany her back to the Hall, where she will take her rest, before you settle in your own favorite spot on the veranda, with a view of the misty mountains stretching before you. It’s the same place you sat on the night of the celebrations after the battle at Helm’s Deep. The same place where your friendship with Aragorn began.
You think about how you were tortured by grief that night, how you asked him if the pain would ever fade, and now it has. It is not gone, but it has dulled and settled such that you no longer feel it constantly. You thought, then, that your loss and grief would be the ending, that you might go on but you would never truly live again. Instead, it opened up a path to happiness and possibility you could never have imagined before.
The sound of your name draws you from your thoughts. You turn and stand, finding yourself face to face with Èomer. He looks oddly unsure of himself, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Are you feeling better?”
“I am, yes.” You nod, “Thank you.”
“Good, I am glad.” He clears his throat, and steps closer. “I wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior. If I added to your distress—”
“You acted with good intentions.” You offer a reassuring smile, “Though I generally prefer to be asked what I need, rather than having it decided for me.”
“Indeed.” He smiles, and you see a bit more of his usual confidence coming back into his posture. “I will remember that.”
“And are you well, Èomer?” You ask, “I realize I have not asked you how you have been faring these last years under the crown of Rohan.”
He laughs lightly, “As well as I imagine your friend Aragorn does. I would always rather be free to ride and travel with the Rohirrim as I once did. But I feel I have risen to the position as best I can. Though it can be lonely, at times.”
“Your sister and Faramir do not provide you with companionship and counsel?”
“They do,” he concedes, “But not the kind I desire.”
He meets your gaze with a gleam in his eye that makes cold realization settle in your stomach. “I see.”
“Then you cannot be surprised when I ask whether you would consider returning to Rohan more permanently— as my wife.”
Your heart stutters and drops, any words you might have conjured in response dissipating into thin air with your utter shock.
“Surely, you have noticed my attempts to court you since your arrival. They were not, I assure you, purely performative. I have always admired you, though from afar, as you were coveted first by my sister and then my cousin. I understand very well the appeal of your strength and intellect, as well as your grace and beauty.” He professes, “Now that you are titled as well, I wish to give you what my cousin could not: your rightful place as queen of Rohan.”
You open and close your mouth, searching for the right words to stop this, but he continues before you can grasp them.
“Our union would of course delight Èowyn to no end. You two would at last be sisters in earnest. And, I know in my heart, that I would be happier with you at my side. You do not, perhaps, love me now, but I believe in time you may develop affection for me. And, as I expressed my hope last night, you will make new memories, happy memories here again. Although you would, of course, be allowed to visit Gondor and your friends there, perhaps every few years or so.”
“I— this is—”
“It is much to take in, I know,” he steps even closer and takes both your hands in his, “But it was always the plan, always meant to be. Thèodred intended you for me. As soon as his father ordered him to wed, I was to ask for your hand and secure your place and safety in his stead. Had he not died, I imagine it would have happened soon after. We anticipated Thèoden’s announcement any day. But that is all past now, and we must look to a different future, one with you at my side as I guide and protect these lands.”
It’s all wrong. You feel sick. You might be sick, if you stand one more moment listening to these shocking declarations and unsettling revelations. That your favorite place, the place where your greatest happiness began, should be tainted by this, makes your stomach churn and your head dizzy.
“Forgive me, I must go.” You manage, your voice breathless, “I need— I have to think.”
He frowns, but does not try to stop you as you pull your hands from his and hurry to the steps and take the path down toward the village.
“I will await your answer, my lady!” He calls after you.
You pick up your pace, and as soon as you are past the first buildings of the city on a hill, you begin to run. You race down towards the edge of the wall, your feet thundering, just barely keeping from tumbling headlong down the path. You run, panting for air, for sense, for reason, until you reach the burial ground. There, you slow to a gasping stop, in front of the tomb you thought you’d never look upon again.
“How could you?” Are the first words you manage, angry, through heaving breaths, “How could you have planned, in secret, to give me away for safekeeping, like some prized possession, rather than a thinking, feeling, human being?”
The only answer you receive is a gust of wind, rustling the flowers blooming above the grave. You begin to pace.
“I can imagine your answer— that you would not have me sent away, that you would not see me heartbroken and alone in the face of your marriage, but you did not ask me. You decided, with someone else, what was best for me. You robbed me of my choice, of my heart, of my voice. You acted out of love, I know it, but what sort of love is that? That you would rather have me near, miserable and married to a man I did not love, than set me free?”
You fall to your knees, feeling that grief open up all over again, tearing through your body.
“Had you lived, I would—” You stop abruptly, a new realization settling within you, soothing the ache of grief at once. “I would still have gone with Aragorn. Had he offered the same place, the same friendship, I would rather have taken it than remain suspended here, loving but not loved as I should have been.”
You pause, feeling a certainty swelling in your chest, warm and familiar, but finally taking recognizable shape in your mind.
“I love him, in a way that is wholly different from how I loved – how I will always love – you. I am happy in this life, away from Rohan. I am happy at Aragorn’s side. I am content with his friendship, his company, his respect, though I would do anything or go anywhere he asked. Because he asks, he wonders, he seeks my opinion and consent. He sees me, he respects me. And that is enough.”
You remain, for a while longer, knelt before Thèodred’s tomb, lost in silent contemplation. Your mind turns over old memories and new meanings, familiar feelings with new names, old dreams and new possibilities, until the sun falls beyond the hill and you are cast under the shadow of the burial mound. The breeze blows through again, and this time you shiver against the chill in the air. You rise on stiff knees, press your hand once to the cold metal of the tomb door, and then make your way back to the Golden Hall.
Night has fallen fully by the time you arrive, and Èowyn rushes from the veranda to pull you into a tight embrace the moment she sees you.
“Where were you? I woke and you were nowhere to be found, and then my brother said you’d run off without a word–”
“Èomer asked me to marry him.” You tell her, and her mouth snaps shut. “I wanted to see Thèodred before I gave him my answer.”
“And what is your answer?” Èomer calls, having stepped out onto the veranda while his sister ran to you. You see Aragorn behind him, leaning back against the outer wall, his face concealed in shadow. You pull away from Èowyn’s embrace, stepping forward to face the king of Rohan.
“I cannot marry you, Èomer.” You say, your voice strong and clear, “Though I am honored by your offer, and hold you in high esteem, I have no desire to be your wife, or your queen.”
His face darkens, “But Thèodred–”
“Could have bestowed a title upon me and married me himself.” You point out, “But he did not. Nor did he consult me in the decision to promise my marriage to you. He is gone, and his promises are nothing but words now, as I well know.”
“This is your home. Your duty is to serve and protect your land to your every ability.”
“Rohan has not been my home for some time.” You say, “I am a lady of Minas Tirith. I am counsel to the King of Gondor. Whatever home I had here remains in the love of my friends, and nothing else.”
Èomer remains silent, his jaw clenched as tightly as his furrowed brow. Finally, he gives you a curt nod.
“I understand you perfectly, my lady.” His words are low, forced through clenched teeth, “You will always have the love of your friends, and be welcome here as a guest anytime you wish. I assure you, I will never trouble you with the offense of such an offer again.”
He bows his head once and then turns to stalk inside. You look to Èowyn once more and take her hands.
“I am sorry if this upsets you, I imagine you would have preferred I said yes.”
“No!” She shakes her head, “I would never wish you the unhappiness of marrying for duty, rather than love. I should have liked to call you sister, but I never thought–” She glances at the veranda, and then lowers her voice, “Let us take supper in my rooms tonight, and talk together in private.”
You agree, slightly confused at her intentions, but willing all the same. Seated comfortably together by the fireplace, you ask her to continue her thoughts from earlier.
“I knew Èomer admired you, but I didn’t expect him to ask you to marry him. I thought he would be discouraged by Aragorn.”
“By Aragorn?”
“That Aragorn loves you,” she says, as though that should be the obvious reason.
“He loves me in friendship, as you do, perhaps–”
“Oh, you do not see.” She covers her mouth a moment in surprise, “But I thought you knew. It’s so clear– but then I suppose one cannot see their own face until someone else holds up a mirror.”
“What are you talking about?” You ask, feeling a desperate urgency for her explanation.
“I should not have said–”
“Tell me, please.”
She sighs. “Aragorn is in love with you. I do not know for how long, but I first noticed it after you were injured in battle. He tended to your wounds and healed you with a desperation I could barely stand to watch. And the way he cared for you while you slept displayed the deepest devotion. A devotion which continues to this day in the way he looks at you with such tenderness and feeling– I thought you knew.”
“I did not realize…” you hold your hand over your heart, feeling it pound in your chest, “I thought– surely, he cannot love again, after he gave his heart to another?”
Èowyn smiles at you sadly. “You gave your heart to another once. Have you loved again?”
You find yourself beginning to laugh and cry at once. “Yes. Yes, I have.”
Her expression crumples and she begins to cry as well, pulling you into a tight embrace.
“I wish you happiness, my dearest friend,” she whispers fiercely, “All that you deserve.”
You stay with her for some hours more, talking and planning, discussing how you will visit again when her baby is born, and how she and Faramir will finally return to Gondor as soon as the child is old enough to travel. You remember your childhood games and stories and she allows you to dress her hair for bed, as you used to, provided she is allowed to do the same for you, if to much less success.
It is late when you return to your rooms, but you wait some time longer, in case Aragorn will knock on your door again. Soon enough, you grow too tired to wait, and resolve instead to speak with Aragorn on the journey home to Gondor, and having settled your plan in your heart, manage to settle down to sleep for the night.
In the morning, you encounter Aragorn in the corridor as you both step out of your rooms to walk to breakfast.
“Good morning,” you greet him, trying to fight an unusual feeling of shyness in his presence.
“Are you well?” He asks, and the concern in his gaze, same as it always was, is so clearly more than you ever realized.
“Very well,” you answer honestly, “And ready to return home.”
He looks down, and you see a hint of a smile on his face at your reference to Gondor, before he nods.
“I thought we might leave after breakfast,” he says, “Unless you wish to stay longer.”
“No, I am eager to be on the road again.”
He holds your gaze a moment, and you wonder if he can sense the double meaning in your words, though you had not intended to imply anything other than your wish to leave.
“As am I.” He agrees simply, and you walk to the banquet hall together.
At breakfast, Èomer largely ignores you, which you don’t really mind very much. You talk with Faramir, whom you haven’t seen much of yet during your visit. He’s pleased with your promise to visit again when the baby is born, and expresses his gratitude that Gondor remains looked after by someone like you. He and Èowyn see you and Aragorn off, and you hold Èowyn as close as you can as you say your goodbyes.
“Write to me and tell me everything that happens,” she whispers.
“I will.” You promise, and she pulls back to kiss both your cheeks.
You climb onto your mare, and with a final wave, set off towards home with Aragorn. You decide to wait to ask him about his feelings until you make camp for the night, but are still more talkative during the ride than you were on the way to Rohan. You point out various places you and Èowyn used to play, and the plain where she taught you your skill with a sword, and ask him in return about his memories of Rohan. He tells you, gesturing to an outcropping where he met Thèoden’s father, the river he once tracked a stag along, and the hilltop at the edge of Fangorn forest where he momentarily believed he had lost Merry and Pippin.
As night falls, you grow nervous, and keep yourself busy with the tasks of making camp– watering the horses, gathering firewood, rolling out the bedding to lay just right among the uneven ground. Èowyn made sure you left with enough provisions for a week, though your journey would only take three days at most, and you eat a hearty supper by the fire.
You sit beside him, your backs to the sheer rock of the misty mountain, watching the flame flicker and dance. Finally, you cannot hold your tongue any longer. “Aragorn, I wondered…when you said you knew what had gotten into Èomer, were you anticipating his proposal?”
“I observed his romantic intentions toward you,” he says, “But I did not know if he would make you an offer. Did you know of his arrangement with Thèodred?”
“No,” you laugh, “If I had, I would have hit both of them over the head until they saw sense.”
He chuckles, “Of that, I have no doubt.”
You hesitate a moment before continuing, “I thought– it seemed to me rather like you were bothered by Èomer’s attentions to me. Was I right in thinking so?”
He glances at you, and then looks back at the fire. “I felt he was taking liberties with you, and asserting control over your person in ways I did not think right. And I worried you would feel pressured to accept him, that you would find yourself in an unhappy position out of duty or obligation.”
“Are those the only reasons?”
He looks at you again, and holds your gaze, searching for the meaning behind your question, an expression of equal parts hope and anguish on his face.
“Aragorn,” you say his name softly, “What does nin rís mean?”
His expression turns shameful, and he shakes his head. “It was a selfish impulse to use those words. I should not have indulged in it.”
You reach for him, taking his hand in yours and lifting it to your mouth so you may press a kiss to the back of his palm. Holding his gaze, you ask again for him to tell you the meaning.
His eyes glow soft and reverent as he looks at you and finally says: “My queen.”
Your breath leaves you in a soft, surprised exhale. He waits, still and silent, likely expecting your rejection or rebuke, while you try to find the words which will properly capture the depth of feeling you carry for him. In the end, words are not enough. Instead, you lean forward and press your lips to his.
It’s a short kiss, barely a brush of your mouth against his, before you begin to pull away. But before you can go far, the hand which you do not already hold has lifted to cradle the back of your head, guiding your lips back to his. This kiss is different, deeper, more electrifying. You let go of his hand to press yourself closer, resting your hands on his chest as his free hand wraps around your back, pulling you into his lap. You kiss him with all the breath in your lungs, pulling away with a gasp as his lips move to your jaw.
“Nin mel,” he says, kissing your jaw, and then under your ear, “My love.”
You repeat it back to him, your hands rising to bury your fingers in his hair. His hand slides from your neck to the top of your shirt, pulling the string until it falls open to your sternum.
“Nin emel,” he murmurs, and kisses you there, “My heart.”
You fall backwards onto the bedding, pulling him with you until his weight is pressed above you. Your hands tug at his shirt, yanking it up his back and stomach until he sits back and pulls it off in one graceful motion. He lowers himself to you again, and you run your hands over his warm skin, over his scars, and duck your head to kiss the place over his heart, whispering, “Nin emel.”
He kisses your mouth again, deeply, desperately, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to slide over your lower belly and ribs. You flex your stomach to sit up, and he pulls back enough to help you take off the shirt. Your nipples, already tightening in arousal, harden against the cold air, and you drop your head back with a moan as the chill on your skin is offset by the heat of his hands and mouth. He takes his time moving down your body with his kisses and caresses, making you squirm and sigh and scratch your nails against his scalp.
He looks up at you as he reaches the scar that runs across your side, earned for protecting his life, and the emotion in his eyes is almost too much for you to bear. He brushes his fingertips against it, and then his lips.
“Nin rís,” he says again, moving back up to kiss you properly.
You wrap your arm around his back, pulling him down and pressing your skin against his, wanting him impossibly close. He touches your cheek and then grasps your hip as you arch your body and press against where you can feel his desire hard and hot and waiting.
He breaks the kiss and moves back down to your hips, pulling your riding breeches and undergarments off at once. You expect him to follow suit with his own trousers, but instead he lifts your right leg, resting it over his shoulder. He turns his face to kiss your knee, and you brace yourself on your elbows, sitting up to ask him what he’s doing when he leans down and presses his face into the apex of your thighs. Your arms give out and you fall back with a shocked, pleasured cry, as he begins to lick and suck and kiss and press his tongue inside, and it is new and different from any of your intimate experiences before, but so so good.
“Aragorn–” you gasp, reaching for something, anything to anchor yourself, and find his hair between your fingertips. He groans against you, and you cry out again at the sensation.
He continues for what seems like an impossibly long time, teasing and tasting, before he reaches his right hand down and presses one finger, and then another inside of you, stroking them back and forth with the rhythm of his mouth.
“Oh–!” You feel yourself working up to something you thought you could only provide for yourself, that peak of pleasure approaching steadily, “Please, I–”
You reach it, and plunge over the edge, gasping for breath as your heart hammers and your hips twitch. He remains at his task until your spasms still, your chest heaving as you catch your breath. Only then does he pull away and return to you, smiling against your mouth as you crush your lips to his.
“I did not know that was something you could do,” you breathe, “Or that I could like it so much.”
“I will have to do it often, then.” He promises, kissing you again, and only renewing your desire.
When you press your hips to his, this time he does as you would expect, and finally unfastens his trousers. You reach for him immediately, pleased at the way he groans and presses his face into your neck as you stroke and lightly squeeze.
“No more of that now,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours as he gathers your hands and presses them down beside your head, your fingers entwined with his. “I need you.”
“You have me.”
His expression shifts from soft desire to determined need, and he lets your hand go long enough to guide himself to you while your legs fall open around his hips. He returns his hand to yours as he presses inside, murmuring elvish words you don’t understand as you cry out in pleasure and squeeze his hands, feeling him fill you completely. He pauses, opening his eyes to search your face.
“Are you well?” He asks, though his voice is strained. “Does it hurt?”
“I would be better if you moved, nin mel.”
He says something else in elvish then, and pulls his hips back before sliding in again quickly, making you both moan. He doesn’t stop after that, finding a steady rhythm with his hips, pounding into you over and over again, bringing pleasure with every drag against your inner walls, every nudge against your softest, innermost spot. You press your lips to his jaw, scrape your teeth against his throat, praise his name in his ear, and generally encourage him until he rips his hand away from yours again to touch you where you’re most sensitive, rubbing tight, fast circles there until you’re crying out at another wave of pleasure within a moment. Soon after, his hips falter in their rhythm and he speaks your name in a broken murmur, filling you with sudden warmth and satisfaction as he slows to a stop inside you.
Aragorn kisses you again, slow and sweet, unhurried. It feels like a lover’s kiss, and you return it, feeling your chest swell. He pulls out of you, soothing your hiss of discomfort with another kiss, and reaches for his discarded shirt, using it to clean the mess now dripping between your legs. Wordlessly, he lies down beside you and takes you in his arms, pulling the blanket over both of your bodies. He presses a kiss to your head, and you fall asleep to the steady thump of his heart.
In the morning, you bathe together under the falls at the side of the mountain, not far from where you made camp the night before. The water is too cold, and there is still too far to ride for you to give in to any ideas that the sight of Aragorn’s bare body in the full light of day arouses. Besides, the gentleness with which he pushes your wet hair away from your face, and traces the thin, winding line of your scar is far better.
Cleaned and dressed, you continue your journey homeward, and there is something in the air between you, a connection and a comfort which comes from voicing things unspoken, and coming to know one another in every possible way.
“I did not think this was possible until I spoke to Gandalf for the last time.” Aragorn muses as you ride together, side by side, “While I knew I felt something for you from the moment you took that burned bread from my hand, I never thought I could call it love until my old friend told me: ‘There are as many forms of love as there are stars in the sky. Limiting yourself to just one provides a poor view of the world, indeed.’”
“That is beautiful.” You say, and then laugh to yourself after a moment, “I did not know until Èowyn told me you loved me two days ago.”
He looks entirely taken aback.
“She is more observant than we give her credit for.” You add, “Although truthfully, I think I might have figured it out if I hadn’t been so afraid of letting myself love you. I worried I would find myself in the same position all over again, of loving someone who could not love me in return.”
“It is not the same,” his voice is insistent, and you find him looking at you with urgent earnesty, “You must know, I love you as I have loved no other.”
You feel your chest swell and your heart beating hard as you hold his gaze. “And I you.”
You ride on, and talk of other things until it is time again to make camp for the night. Again, you build a fire and lay out the bedding and eat your supper. This time, you lean against his chest, with his arm wrapped around you, as you watch the flame and he smokes his pipe, sitting together in quiet contentment.
But again, your curiosity breaks the spell. You shift, sitting up and turning to look at him. He meets your gaze, his own filled with such open warmth and love it makes your heart ache.
“Tell me,” you fiddle with the ties of his shirt, and then look up at him, “How would one say ‘my king’ in elvish?”
His eyes widen, and his cheeks darken with a blush. You smile at the evidence of your effect on him, and playfully steal the pipe from his lips, taking a puff of it yourself while you wait for his answer.
“Nin aran.” He says, his voice quiet and slightly hoarse.
You snuff out the pipe and set it aside before climbing into his lap and draping your arms around his shoulders.
“Will you lie with me again tonight, nin aran?”
His arms wrap tight around your waist, crushing you close against his chest. “I will do whatever you ask, nin rís.”
And he does– bringing you pleasure three times over in one night, and caring for you with impossible gentleness in the aftermath. You don’t fall asleep right away this time, instead holding onto the arm he lays across your chest, drawing little circles and patterns onto his skin as you stare up at the stars.
“I did not know it could be like this, either.” You speak softly, feeling the warmth of his breath on your temple before he lays a soft kiss there, “With Thèodred it was always more painful than pleasing, at least for my part. And he never…”
“Tasted you?”
You blush, still unused to the activity, though you were already quite fond of it. “No, never.”
“I feel badly for him then,” Aragorn shifts, leaning over you slightly and you can see his smile, “For you are the finest thing I have ever tasted.”
Your blush deepens and you find you cannot hold his gaze, but this only seems to encourage him as he laughs and leans down to kiss you. That, at least, you are able to return.
The next day, as you draw within a few miles of Minas Tirith, you find yourself growing melancholy. You don’t want this delicate routine to end, the simplicity and happiness of spending your days riding with Aragorn, your nights in his arms, and every moment in his company. While you don’t doubt his love, or your willingness to maintain this new stage of your relationship, things will necessarily change the moment you return to the citadel.
“Nin mel,” he calls to you, and you realize you’ve ridden ahead as he slows his horse to a stop by a small pond, fed by a brook trickling down from the mountain, “Let us stop for a moment.”
You turn around and return to him, dismounting and letting go of your horse as it drinks from the pond beside his.
“I thought we should speak more…specifically, before we return home.” He says, and then steps closer to take your hands in his. “I do not use the name nin rís lightly. I would have no queen, no wife, but you. That however, is no condition of my love. I will have whatever you wish to give me of yourself, be it your consent to be my wife, a place in your bed, or simply the knowledge that you love me, I will be honored.”
“Aragorn,” you begin.
“Do not answer yet,” he pleads, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before he lets go of your hands and lowers himself to the ground before you, palms set on his knees as he looks up at you like you are a god and he is but your subject.
“I kneel before you, the woman I would cross mountains and oceans for, the woman who could command me to battle or to bed, the woman I would gladly kill and die for, the woman who I will live for. I pledge my sword, my honor, my life, and my heart, to you.”
Smiling, though you feel tears beginning to press behind your eyes, you reach out and tilt his chin up to look at you, as he once did to you, all those years ago.
“I would have only your love.”
“You do.” He lifts his hand to yours and turns his head to kiss your palm, “As long as I live, you have my love.”
You kneel now as well, and press your other hand to his cheek. “I would have no king, no husband, but you.”
His smile is the most beautiful smile you have ever seen, just before he wraps his arms around you and holds you close. You press your face into his shoulder, breathing him in, and thanking the Valar for all that came before which allowed you to find this moment, this happiness, now.
Masterlist | As it Seems Masterlist | The Hotch Playlist
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: You and Hotch enjoy your wedding night.
(A/N: Hello! A shorter delay this time, but this chapter comes with a slightly bittersweet update. I'm going to take an indefinite posting hiatus from As it Seems. That's not the same as a writing hiatus, though! In fact, I'm going to stop posting this story for a while so I can write. My previous stories were all written and finished before I ever posted the first chapter, so I could always stick to the weekly update schedule. I got so excited about this one, and it was getting so long that I decided to jump right into sharing it with you all, but unfortunately lately I haven't been able to keep up. I am still in love with this story, and have plans for many more chapters before we reach the end, but this feels like a good place to take a break for a while. I'll be writing more chapters and some shorter fics for other characters and fandoms in the meantime, but there won't be any updates for a bit. I hope you'll understand, and bear with me as I get back in the groove <3)
(A/N (again): Also, I'm phasing out taglists, so please follow this account and/or turn on notifications for updates in the future!)
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content (oral sex, female and male receiving; unprotected sex)
“What time is it?” Y/N asks Hotch, her voice hushed as they walk down from the lodge to their private cabin.
The pathway is illuminated by little lanterns stuck into the dirt beside the paving stones, but Hotch keeps a tight hold of her hand, careful not to let his wife trip.
His wife. He smiles at the mere thought of the words.
He holds her left hand in his right, and her discarded high heels in his left hand, which he lifts to check his watch.
“Quarter to midnight.” He says.
“Oh,” she scoffs, “It’s still so early!”
He smiles again, feeling affection and amusement warm in his chest. After three glasses of champagne and a lot of dancing, she’s definitely on the south side of tipsy. He feels sober, his single glass of champagne was hours ago now at dinner, and contentedly so. He wants to feel and remember everything about tonight exactly the way it is.
“Stay there, please.” He requests, letting go of her hand as they reach the front door.
“What? Why?” She asks, but remains standing on the welcome mat as he pushes the door open and gently tosses her shoes through the doorway.
“I’m going to carry you inside.”
“Oh!” She lights up for a second in excitement before her brow pinches and she stalls him with a hand on his chest. “Wait, honey, what about your back?”
He’s not offended by the question, knowing it stems from care and concern rather than doubt. He covers her hand with his as he promises:
“My back can handle it.”
“Okay, if you’re sure–” she cuts herself off with a string of surprised giggles as he stoops to hook his left arm under her knees while his right remains held against her back. The base of his spine twinges a bit, but otherwise he’s fine, and finds further motivating strength in the sound of her delighted laughter and the feeling of her hands clinging to his shoulders. He steps carefully over the threshold, angling sideways to keep from knocking her head against the doorframe, and continues into the cabin.
“Okay, okay,” she nudges his shoulder, still laughing, “Put me down now, strongman.”
He’s tempted to carry her all the way to the bed, just to prove himself, but decides it’s not worth the risk of taking himself out of commission for the rest of the night, or worse– for the better part of their honeymoon. So he sets her down gently, keeping his arm braced at her back even after her feet have hit the floor, until he’s sure she’s steady on her feet.
“That was fun,” she smiles, turning to face him fully with her hands looped around the back of his neck, pressing herself closer and tilting her head up for a kiss which he immediately provides. He settles his hands at her waist, feeling the soft, smooth fabric of her dress and the even softer warmth of her body underneath. As his mouth presses against hers, slow and sweet, he slides one arm around her back to hold her closer, the other smoothing up over her side to her ribs. She lets out a soft sound, her right hand moving up to the back of his head, her fingers digging into his hair, while her left hand grips at his shoulder, bunching the fabric of his suit jacket in her fist.
He can’t bring himself to break away from her yet, but he refrains from letting his hands stray too far. Instead, he runs his hands over her back and curves and hips and ribs, lightly pressing and squeezing and reveling in the feeling of her singular self beneath her beautiful dress, all at his fingertips. He wants to take his time tonight, to stop himself from giving into all his impulses at once, to touch and to taste and to feel.
“I think,” he murmurs, pulling back enough to kiss her forehead, to stall a little before she gets too worked up, “My wife needs some water.”
She makes a face, but allows him to gently nudge her into the kitchen area, ameliorated by his hands on her back and his lips on her cheek and neck.
“I see what you’re doing, Hotchner.” Her tone is stern, but her eyes are wide and dilated as he presses her back against the counter, keeping one arm around her middle while he leans to the side to fill a glass with water. She takes the glass, grumbling into it as she takes a sip. “Being all hot and handsy and ‘my wife.’”
He smirks at the way she deepens her voice to repeat his words, the impression making him sound more like a cartoon character than himself. He backs away from her, taking off his jacket and hanging it over the back of one of the chairs by the kitchen table.
She groans, watching him go. “What are you doing now?”
He holds her gaze as he slowly and casually unbuttons the sleeves of his dress shirt and rolls them up to his elbows, the right first and then the left. “Looking at you.”
He’s telling the truth as he lets his eyes wander, admiring every inch of the woman he has just married. She’s a little less polished than when he helped her into that dress so many hours ago, her hair has been loosened from its careful styling, her lipstick has faded from the champagne and his own lips, her feet are bare from the heels she discarded as soon as the dancing started, and she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
She drains the rest of her glass quickly, clearly getting more worked up under the intensity of his observation, though his chest swells with pride and confidence as she unabashedly returns his stare, her gaze traveling over his body before returning to his face.
“Your wife has had some water.” She says, primly placing the glass in the sink and leaning back against the counter with a smile he could only describe as devious. “And now I think my husband needs to kiss me.”
He had expected her to turn the tables on him, it was only fair, but he hadn’t anticipated quite how much hearing the sound of her voice calling him husband would affect him. It’s enough to send him across the few feet of space separating them, dropping one hand to brace himself against the counter beside her, while the other cradles the side of her face, holding her steady as his lips crash into hers.
She hums in satisfaction, her arms hooking under his and across his back, her nails scratching lightly through his shirt as she kisses him back with intensity. They return to the hurried, fleeting touches of before, though now he allows himself to reach up to cup her breasts and down to squeeze her thighs and ass, as she drops a hand to the front of his pants to palm at his crotch.
A groan makes its way from his chest to his throat, and her satisfied smile breaks her mouth away from his. She ducks her head to nip and kiss his throat as she continues to caress and squeeze his quickly stiffening erection.
“Are you going to take me to bed now?” She asks, dragging her teeth over his pulse point and then soothing the spot with her lips, making his mind go blank for a second, “Or do you think I need more water?”
He doesn’t dignify the question with a verbal response– not that he could form words right now anyway – but rather bends his knees, shoves her dress up to grab the back of her thighs, and hooks her legs around his hips, lifting her up in his arms. She holds tight to his back and he practically storms across the small open-plan cabin to drop her onto the mattress, the springs creaking as he presses down above her.
She tugs her dress up so she can bend and spread her knees, making space for him to lie on top of her, and he can’t stop himself from an indulgent grind of his hips into hers, both of them breathing sharply at the closer contact. He shifts lower, pressing his mouth to her jaw and marking down the column of her throat, tasting just the hint of sweat on her skin from the hot, crowded dance floor.
She pushes him to sit back on his heels as she sits up and reaches back to unzip her dress. He kisses her and pulls her hands away, dragging the zipper down more easily himself while she makes impressively quick work of the buttons on his shirt. While she shoves the shirt open and runs her hands over his chest and stomach, scratching her nails through his chest hair and gently tracing his scars, he pulls the front of her dress down and unhooks her bra. She pulls the straps over her arms and drops it off the edge of the bed while he takes off his shirt completely and drops it on the floor.
He guides her to lie back again, and lets his mouth descend, first to her left breast, while his left hand squeezes and caresses the right, kissing and mouthing around the soft skin before closing his lips around her nipple at the same time he pinches the other with his hand. She says his name on the end of a soft sigh, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
“We’re alone tonight,” He murmurs, kissing her sternum before switching sides, “I want to hear you.”
Lately, with the usual pace of work at the BAU and the added rush of wedding planning, sex has been a hushed affair, either in the dead of night or in the few moments he and Y/N have found themselves alone and without groceries to pick up or appointments to make or last-minute calls to the office. It’s no less enjoyable or meaningful, but there’s been a certain level of self-awareness and control that Hotch is looking forward to leaving behind tonight.
He’s a little rougher this time, pulling on the left and grazing his teeth on the right, and she lets out a stuttering noise of pleasure that has him pressing his hips into the mattress for some much-needed friction. Still, he tries to tamp down his own urgency – he can, and wants to wait – focusing on teasing her breasts with his mouth, holding his weight with his left forearm, while his right hand finds where her dress is bunched up at her hips.
“Oh, Aaron, yes,” she breathes as he pulls her underwear to the side and spreads her outer folds with his thumb and runs his middle finger up the length of her slit, from her vagina to her clit, where he begins to rub little circles around the bundle of nerves. She’s starting to get wet, but he knows exactly how to leave her dripping for him.
He pulls back from her breast and sits up enough to hook his fingers around the sides of her underwear and drag them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help him get them off, reaching for the hem of her dress and starting to pull it up.
“Leave it on.”
Her eyes widen as he holds her gaze, finding it impossible to be embarrassed at the admission of his particular interest when her lips part and she lets out a little breath– a sign of her own arousal he’d recognize in an instant. He likes her too much like this, in her wedding dress, with the bodice loose and slightly twisted over her stomach, leaving her chest exposed, while her skirt is pushed all the way to her hips, intermittently covering and exposing the apex of her thighs with every shift of her legs.
She watches him with that same expression of anticipation, wordlessly shuffling into the position that’s grown familiar to both of them. She lies diagonally across the bed, her head propped up on the farthest left corner of the pillows, grabbing one to rest underneath her hips while her knees bend and her feet settle flat and wide apart on the mattress. His shoulders fill the space in between, his head turning to leave the same marks on her inner thighs that he’d left on her neck. As he works his way closer with his mouth, he wastes no time with his fingers, spreading her folds again and sinking his middle finger inside of her.
His erection twitches at the moan she lets out, the sound fading into a gasping whine with every breath as he crooks his finger upwards and pushes steadily in and out, shifting a little this way and that until she moans again, lifting her head to look at him as her hands clamp onto his hair.
“There?” He asks, probing the same spot.
“There.” She says, her voice strained, “There– there, more, please–”
He adds his index finger, pressing harder and faster. She moans again, louder this time, her head dropping back onto the pillows. The sight of her, the sensation of her hands in his hair, and the feeling of her getting wetter by the second, slicking his fingers as he pumps them in and out, is enough to make his pants feel painfully tight, even as he pushes his hips into the mattress again.
He watches her in awe. “You’re so beautiful.”
Her legs start to fidget, her feet pressing harder into the bed, her legs slipping and straining, and he gently bites at the hinge of her hip before dropping his mouth to her clit. Her breath stutters before she lets out a high keening noise. He swirls and flicks his tongue in a quick, repeating succession.
“Ah–oh, fuck.” One hand drops from his hair to grab at the sheets, “Fuck, don’t stop.”
He hums his acknowledgement, and she chokes on his name. He pumps his fingers faster, keeping his index finger curled to hit her g-spot, while he extends his middle finger to penetrate deeper.
“Oh my– god, yes– like that–” she pants, “Just like that–”
He pushes his face more firmly into her, pressing down on her clit with his tongue, flicking it as fast as he can, matching the pace with his fingers moving inside of her until his wrist begins to ache and her breath starts to hitch and her hips start twitching on their own, nudging up into his face, begging for just a little bit more.
He pulls his mouth away, immediately replacing his lips with the pads of his middle and index fingers, rubbing her clit fast and rough. He hears her breath stall first, catching and holding for an instant in her chest, before she cries out and he feels her clenching and squeezing around his fingers as she comes.
He continues to pleasure her, dimly aware that his hand aches and his fingers are sticky and soaked, but he doesn’t care, more focused on watching the tension in her expression peak before giving over to bliss, as her chest heaves and her legs tremble.
The clenching fades to a few errant flutters, and he finally pulls his fingers out of her. Without any real thought, just acting out of want, he licks them clean and then leans down for another, better taste, running his tongue from her entrance up to circle her clit again. She lets out another hitching gasp, her hips twitching at the overstimulation.
“Jesus christ,” she breathes, “You just keep getting better at that.”
Her words fill his chest with pride and he pulls his mouth off of her. If he had his way – and he hopes to someday soon – she would let him go down on her for as long as she could stand it. The analyst in him, the scientist, likes the idea of the experiment, see how many times he can push her over the edge, see how many different ways, see how long either of them can last. He lifts his head, meeting her gaze with a smug smile.
“That’s the idea.”
She lets out a little disbelieving laugh and grabs a pillow and drops it over her face, and he can hear her muffled shout underneath: “Oh my god!”
“What?” He smiles, equally amused and curious as he moves back up on top of her, pulling the pillow away from her face. “What is it?”
“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re real.” She shakes her head, smiling. “Or at least, I can’t believe you’re mine.”
He drops his weight onto his right side to lay next to her, extending his right arm and she shifts to rest her head on it, lying on her side facing him. Her hands are clasped together in front of her chest. He lifts his left hand to her face, brushing her now ridiculously messy hair out of the way. He leans in and kisses her on the apple of each cheek, on the tip of her nose, and then softly presses his lips to hers. Her hands unwind from each other, palms landing on his chest as she kisses him back.
He pulls back enough to take her left hand in his, moving their clasped hands to rest where he can see her new ring and she can see his. He kisses her ring, and the silver is cold against his lips.
“I’m yours. For as long as I live, for as long as you want me, I am yours.”
“You always say the best things first,” she sighs.
He huffs out a soft laugh, squeezing her hand. “Sorry.”
He smiles softly as she kisses his ring.
“And I’m yours. For as long as I live, I’m yours. Whether you want me or not.”
She finishes with a resolute nod, but gives him a cheeky smile, and he feels his own smile broadening in response. Laughter bubbles up out of him, delighted and uncontrollable, a release of the build-up from a day of pure happiness, sparked by the surprise and amusement that only she can produce. He rolls onto his back, covering his face with his hand, trying to get himself and his breathing under control. His laughter makes her laugh, and what starts as a giggle turns into gasping for air as she curls over his chest.
After a minute or two, they both settle, sighing gently as they catch their breath.
Hotch wipes tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes, looking down at where her head rests against his chest. She looks up at him, her eyes twinkling.
“Don’t.” He warns, already feeling his smile growing out of his control again.
“Okay, fine.” She sighs, dragging herself into a seated position next to him, playing at being disappointed and tired until she pounces, straddling his hips and pressing her palms into his shoulders to keep him flat on his back. “I guess I’ll have to wind you up some other way.”
~
You pull your dress over your head, gently tossing it so it drapes haphazardly over a chair near the bed. The moment your skin is bare, his hands are on your body, reverently touching and exploring and caressing the softness of your belly, your hips, your ribs, your breasts.
“You’re so beautiful,” he repeats, “Always, my beautiful wife.”
You cover his hands with yours, keeping them on your chest, closing your eyes and letting out a halting breath as he squeezes and starts to tease you again, pinching your nipples until they’re hard.
But you have some teasing of your own to do, opening your eyes to watch him as you grind your pelvis down onto his, feeling his half-hard erection start to twitch in his pants. You grind on him a few more times, feeling the fabric becoming damp from your wetness, even as his bulge grows.
You shift lower, unbuckling his belt, undoing his button, and unzipping his fly before reaching into his underwear to pull his erection free. You hear him sigh at the release of pressure, and quickly turn the sound into a surprised moan as you immediately take him into your mouth.
You swirl your tongue over his tip and then bob your head, taking as much of him in your mouth as you can, pressing your tongue to the vein on the underside of his cock as you suck him. He’s fully hard almost immediately, letting out a string of delicious sounds as you work him with your hand and mouth, groaning and gasping and stuttering praise.
Still, you can feel yourself aching, empty and wanting, and you know he doesn’t like to come in your mouth when he can come inside you instead. So you pull yourself away with one last swirl of your tongue over his head, and tug at his pants and underwear. He sits up and reaches down to help shove the fabric down his legs, his eyes slightly glazed over. You pause as you drag his pants to his ankles, noticing for the first time that he still has his shoes on.
“You didn’t take these off?” You laugh a little as you pull them off one by one before stripping off his socks.
“I had a more important goal in mind.” He says, shifting to pull his pants off and toss them away. He moves to sit up against the pillows, his legs extending along the length of the bed, rather than lying diagonally as you had been. You crawl up to meet him, straddling his thighs again as his hands reach for you once more.
“You’re—” you let out a stuttering breath as he kisses your neck and pinches your nipples again, “You’re so beautiful too, you know.”
You shift closer, kneeling tall as you take his cock in your hand and pump it a few times before lining him up with your entrance.
“Wait,” he breathes, “Condom. Let me—”
“Shit.” You do a quick mental calculus, “I think it’s fine. I’ve been extra careful about the pill, and…I really want to feel you tonight. Is that okay?”
“Of course,” he lifts his hands to your face, kissing you deeply, “I just— I don’t want any regrets.”
“None.” You promise, and you mean it. You genuinely believe you’ll be fine this time, and even if you’re not, you know you’ll figure it out together. That’s the whole point. “Never with you.”
He kisses you again, bracing your hip with one hand and cradling your face with the other as you finally sink down, one inch at a time, taking him inside you. You squeeze your eyes closed at the familiar, ever-wonderful feeling of him stretching and filling you, your lips parted on a gasp as he moans into your mouth.
“You feel so good,” he breathes, groaning again as you adjust to the intrusion and start to move. You circle your hips, just barely lifting up before grinding down again, feeling him deep within you. His other hand drops, both hands now gripping your hips and following your movements so he can thrust his hips up to meet you.
“Ah, Aaron—” you moan, feeling your clit press into his pelvis. “Oh, honey—”
“So good,” he repeats, kissing you again before thrusting up harder, “So good for me.”
His thrust hits your g-spot and you whimper, grinding down faster to try and hit it again. He seems to understand, thrusting up again, smiling against your mouth as you moan at the feeling of him finding it again.
“There,” you pant, “More, please, right there, please, please—”
You don’t have to beg for long before he’s lifting you up and pressing you backwards, pinning your body to the mattress and thrusting fast into you, hitting that spot even harder.
“Yes—! Yes, like—like that, oh—” Your words are lost to gasping moans as he fucks you, setting a fast, tight rhythm. His hips slam into you, and you can hear the dull slap of skin on skin, even as the mattress starts to creak loudly beneath your rocking bodies. The pressure builds inside you steadily, getting hotter, getting stronger.
“Good— my beautiful girl—” he grits out, mindlessly speaking as his hips snap and he looks down at you in a daze of focus and desire, “So perfect, my beautiful— beautiful wife.”
Your inner walls clench at the sound, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder, groaning. You grip at his back, at his hair, wanting to feel all of him at once as the pressure rises and your need grows.
“Can you come—like this?” He lifts his head, and you nod wordlessly, biting your lip as he keeps hitting that special little spot, pummeling it over and over, your pleasure growing more and more. He watches you, carefully, with a kind of focus and awe that makes you feel beautiful, powerful, and unimaginably cared for. It’s like he’s studying every inch of your face, ever micro-expression and reaction to the pleasure he’s causing, bringing you closer and closer to euphoria.
“Aaron, Aaron— ah, Aaron— yes, ohhh—”
You gasp, your breath stalling and your back arching to press your breasts into his chest as you go from approaching the edge to hurtling over it, the pleasure rushing to a peak and releasing from within. You come, feeling him even harder and deeper as your walls clench and pulse, squeezing him tighter.
“That’s it— mmf— yes,” he murmurs, his hips moving even harder, the bed creaking and squeaking as you gasp and moan through the aftershocks of your orgasm.
“Come inside me,” you breathe as soon as you have enough air, moaning as he fucks your over-sensitive pussy, “I want it— inside—”
His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he inhales sharply and groans your name, coming inside you. He thrusts one more time and stills himself, pushed in as deep as he can, and you shudder at the feeling of him filling you completely, your walls fluttering again. He pants, his breath hot against your skin, and you reach up to run your fingers through his hair.
He lifts his head and kisses you passionately. You lift your other hand to his cheek, parting your lips to deepen the kiss. His hips twitch, whether involuntarily or not you can’t tell, but the shallow thrust has you gasping lightly.
The kiss broken, he ducks his head to your jaw, mouthing along the underside of your chin and down your throat, retracing the marks he’d surely left earlier.
“I love you.” You say, flexing your fingers in his hair and meeting his gaze as he lifts his head again, “So much.”
“I love you like no one else,” he returns, kissing you again.
He kisses you even as he gently pulls his softening cock out of you, soothing your soft noise of loss and sensation with his lips. He moves back down the bed and cleans the mess of his come and yours with his mouth, gentle and careful not to overwhelm you, though the soft press of his tongue and lips is enough to make your thighs twitch and your eyes shut and your breath stutter.
He returns to lie next to you, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you to rest on his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he pulls the blankets up over you. You know you’ll have to get up and pee and maybe brush your teeth before you sleep, but you’re not ready to move yet, your muscles filled with a pleasant, heavy ache that begs you to stay right there in his arms for as long as possible.
“What time is it now?” You ask, watching as he peers at his watch.
“Half past one.”
“Our wedding is over, then.” You say, a little sad at the end of such a perfect day, but unwilling to trade even a second of it.
He exhales softly, contentedly, holding you closer. “And the rest of our life begins.”
Masterlist | As it Seems Masterlist | The Hotch Playlist
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: Surrounded by friends and family and lots of love, you and Aaron get married.
(A/N: Hello my loves! As predicted, this chapter took longer than a week to get to you, but that’s because I was determined to get it right. This is my third time around writing a Hotchner wedding, and I wanted to make it different from the ones in Between Us and A Hard Day’s Night, which is what inspired the POV changes throughout the chapter. Please let me know if you feel this is the wedding the story and our beloved characters deserve, because I am fully committed to rewriting until it is right for them and for all of you, my lovely dedicated readers. Okay, without further ado, let’s get married!)
Jack Hotchner likes weddings.
He’s never been to one before, and even in the middle of this first one, he’s decided he likes them. There’s pizza and swimming and all his aunts and uncles in the same place for once. There’s also a big wooden arch thing with vines all over it that looks like it grew out of the ground like all the other big trees all around.
Auntie Jess says it’s where they’re going to stand in a minute, once the music starts. Uncle Dave, Uncle Spencer and Uncle Derek are all already standing on one side and Auntie Penelope, Auntie Emily and Auntie JJ are all standing on the other side. He knows Auntie Penelope is just excited – she told him so when she and Uncle Derek wanted his help picking which tie Uncle Derek should wear – but she looks kind of nervous now. Maybe she’s so excited it’s making her nervous.
That’s kind of how Jack feels.
Daddy and Y/N have been talking about today for a long time, long enough that Jack was starting to wish the days would go faster so they could all finally, finally get here, because he was so excited about the pizza and the swimming and the big fluffy bed that’s perfect for jumping on, and later there will be ice cream and dancing and Auntie Jess said he can stay up as long as he wants because it’s such a special day.
But he’s also nervous.
It’s a big day, and not just because of all the fun stuff, but because Daddy and Y/N and getting married. Daddy told him not that it’s just an official thing, and that most material things won’t change. Y/N already lives with them, and they might want to move into a house at some point, but that’s not because of the wedding. Officially, Y/N will be Jack’s parent, like Daddy, and she’ll keep looking after him like she always does, but Jack doesn’t have to call her anything other than her name if he doesn’t want to. Daddy didn’t say any other names, but Jack knows he meant that Jack doesn’t have to call her “Mommy.” Though it does feel a little weird in his mouth when he says “Daddy and Y/N,” instead of “Daddy and Mommy” like other kids, but that’s just who they are.
Jack loves Y/N. She’s fun and gentle and gives the best cuddles (even better than Daddy) and she helps take care of him. She never yells, and she always seems to understand when things happen and he gets upset– she always understands that it’s not always his fault when he feels too much and doesn’t know what to do. She’s safe.
Jack loves her, and he does think of her like a mother– she acts like one, at least like a mother should. She’s just not Mommy. Mommy was someone different.
Jack doesn’t love less than he loves Mommy, really, he just loves her differently. Because Y/N is here. She’s here, to take him to school and teach him to bake cookies and read him bedtime stories and hold him when he has a bad dream.
Mommy isn’t here anymore. Jack only really remembers what he’s seen in the videos he and Daddy watch every year, and the stories Daddy and Auntie Jessica tell. He thinks he remembers how it felt when she hugged him, but he’s not really sure.
He wishes Mommy could still be here. Daddy always says Mommy would have liked Y/N, and Jack thinks so too– he and Daddy love her, so obviously Mommy would love her too. If Mommy were here he could have even more hugs and have another person to play hide-and-seek with him and Y/N. It would be even more fun.
But she’s not here. And it’s a big day.
Jack has to stand up there, under the weird vine-tree in front of all those people. He’s never had to do anything like that before.
His stomach feels like a whole cloud of butterflies is flying around inside of it and his heart is beating extra fast and it’s like that time his friend Josh jumped out from around the corner at recess and scared him so bad he screamed.
“What if I forget what to say?” He looks up at Auntie Jess.
“Don’t worry, you’re going to do great, sweetie pie,” Auntie Jess says, squeezing his shoulder like she always does. It makes him feel better. “And I’ll be with you the whole time. So will Y/N and your dad. Just focus on us and you’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Jack nods, though he’s not sure how he can avoid looking at all the people.
But then he remembers what Daddy said about breathing, and he does it a few times, only faltering as music starts to play and he knows it’s time. But he breathes, and he reaches up for Auntie Jess’s hand. She takes it and holds it nice and tight, and together they walk down the long stretch of grass between all the chairs.
Jack looks at his other aunts and uncles, feeling a little better when Uncle Derek winks at him, and Aunt Penelope grins and gives him a thumbs up. They get to the tree arch thing and Jack takes another big breath as he turns around to face all the people, pressing himself back against Jessica’s stomach.
He sees Uncle Sean in the second row, and Will and Henry across the aisle, and a lot of grown-ups Daddy and Y/N said were cousins or work friends but Jack doesn’t recognize them. He takes another breath and Auntie Jess puts her hands on his shoulders.
Finally, Jack sees down at the other end of the aisle, Daddy and Y/N walking towards them.
Even though they aren’t wearing very colorful clothes – Y/N’s dress is just white and Daddy’s suit is just gray – Jack thinks they look beautiful. Like those pictures of weddings Jack and Y/N looked up together on her computer, but better, because it’s Daddy and Y/N.
And Daddy looks happy. Which makes Jack happy– he doesn’t like when Daddy is sad, and Daddy was sad for such a long time.
But now, they walk together, with Y/N’s arm looped around Daddy’s elbow, and they smile right at him. Y/N waves, and Jack waves back, starting to feel more excited than nervous. He bounces a little bit on his toes under the gentle pressure of Auntie Jess’s hands on his shoulders. Daddy and Y/N stop as they reach Jack and Auntie Jess.
Jack tilts his head up to look at them, determined to be brave. He watches as Daddy and Y/N face each other. They hold hands, and the wedding begins.
~
Jessica Brooks is happy. She probably should feel at least a little bit bittersweet, conflicted, or perhaps just strange, as she officiates her deceased sister’s ex-husband’s wedding. But she feels happy, and the joy she feels blooming in her chest is all due to the three people standing in front of her.
Jess misses Haley every day. She wishes, every day, that she could get her sister back. But she knows she can’t. What’s done is done, and Haley has passed on to whatever is waiting on the other side. And in the wake of all that heartbreak and grief, not in spite of it, a new family has formed.
Because the truth of it is that stepping in to take care of Jack, more than the fleeting visits and weekend babysits when he was barely walking and talking, has closed a gap in her life she never thought could be filled. Having her own kids is not, nor will ever be in the cards for Jess. Her art, her work, her passion, will always come first (not to mention her repulsion to the physical state of pregnancy). But she loves to play and indulge that youthful creativity and try to help heal the horrors her nephew endured so young with as much support and love as she can provide.
And in the process, she received love and respect in return, more than she ever expected. Jess was never close with Aaron before Haley died. She liked him, she respected him, but she didn’t really know him. They weren’t friends. But over the last three years, he’s become as much of a brother to her as Haley was a sister– in some ways more so, because Haley always saw her as a kid sister, and Aaron treats her as a whole, complete, complex person. He’s invested in her happiness, just as she is in his.
A happiness which he finally found.
Perhaps, if he were marrying anyone else, Jess would feel more conflicting emotions. If his chosen partner were any less genuine, any less generous, any less intellectual, humorous, and kind, perhaps it would be harder for Jess to accept her as a friend, confidant, even as a sister.
And so, Jess takes a breath, and wears a heartfelt smile as she speaks out, loud and clear, to the assembled wedding guests:
“We are gathered here, on this beautiful day, to unite a family in love.” She begins, gently squeezing Jack’s shoulders. “Love brings us together. Love heals the wounds of grief and heartbreak, love soothes insecurity and loneliness. Love changes us, shapes us, and carries us forward. But love is not easy. Love demands work, sacrifice, and compromise.”
Jess looks between the couple, smiling softly as she takes in the earnest awe of Aaron’s expression as he looks at Y/N, and the quiet, bright joy reflected back at him by his bride.
“Love can bring pain, as much as joy, and for that, love requires bravery,” Jess continues, “The most courageous people, I think, are the ones who choose to love. Even when it’s painful, even when it’s difficult, and especially when they’ve loved before and lost. No one bears the risk of love more, or reaps the reward. And standing before you now, are those brave, true, and deserving people, here to share and declare their love today.”
Y/N turns to look at her, smiling with warmth and gratitude, and Jess can’t help but beam back.
“They have prepared their own vows, so you won’t have to listen to me this whole time,” Jess smiles as she gets a good-natured chuckle for that one, and then nods to Aaron, “The groom will begin.”
Aaron turns his gaze to Jack, giving his son a small, vulnerable smile as he takes a deep, steadying breath before Aaron looks back at his bride.
“Y/N, I promise, first and above all, to love you. Through hardship and happiness, through sickness and health, no matter where we travel or what decisions we face, I promise to respect and cherish you, always. I know our lives will not always be easy–” his voice begins to falter with emotion, but he takes another breath to steady it, continuing, “But I know that loving you is, and I promise to love you for as long as I live.”
He pauses, and lets go of one of her hands then, reaching the other down to Jack, who steps forward and takes it. Jess hears – and feels – the tender reaction rippling through the assembled guests as Aaron continues.
“Jack, as our family grows and changes from today, I promise that I will always care for you, support you, and guide you, as best I can. I promise, as we welcome my new partner and your new parent, that I will listen to you, learn from you, and watch you grow. I will not be perfect, I never have been, but I promise, my son, that I will never stop trying.”
Jack stretches up on his tip-toes, and Jess hears him whisper to Aaron: “Good job, Daddy.” She can’t help but grin as she turns to Y/N and nods.
“And now the bride.”
Y/N reaches for Jack right away, eyes shining with emotion through her smile, and Jess sees her squeeze both Hotchners’ hands for strength before she looks at her husband-to-be.
“Aaron, I promise to love you – even though you’re being really unfair by making me follow that beautiful vow –” that gets a laugh from the crowd and Aaron as well, “Whether we’re together or apart, whether we are young or old, no matter what, I will love you. Through disagreements big and small, through mistakes and accidents, through all the wide unknowns facing us, I promise to be there with you, every step of the way– with patience, empathy, and support. You are my person, Aaron Hotchner, my partner, my best friend, and my greatest ally. I love you like I’ve never loved anything before, and I promise to love and honor you for as long as I may live.”
Now it’s her time to take a steadying breath, holding his tender, almost tearful gaze for a moment before she lets go of Aaron entirely, crouching down to take both of Jack’s hands and meet him eye-to-eye.
“Jack, my sweetpea, I promise to do my best. I will never replace the mother you lost, but promise to try every day to be a good parent. I know it won’t be easy, but you’re my favorite hide-and-seek partner, the best sous-chef around, and the most delightful playmate. I know, even if it’s difficult and confusing and filled with mistakes, it will also be so much fun. I will always be here for you, to cheer you on, to help you up when you fall down, and to love you, no matter what.”
A lump of raw emotion rises in Jessica’s throat as Jack pulls his hands from Y/N’s grasp and wraps his arms around her neck. She winds her arms around his back and holds him tight, eyes closed for a moment. As her sweet little boy pulls away again, Jessica inhales deeply and clears her throat in order to say: “And now Jack.”
As Y/N stands once more, Jack looks up, wide-eyed at his father. Aaron, now crying silently, takes his son’s hand again, and demonstrates another deep breath. Jack reaches for Y/N again, and she holds his hand tight as Jack mirrors the rise and fall of his father’s chest.
“You got this, kiddo.” Jess murmurs, feeling her chest fill with pride as Jack lifts his head and speaks, tentative but loud.
“Daddy and…and Y/N, I promise to try my hardest, and to…to do my best. To, um–” he glances back at Jess.
“Listen.” She prompts with a whisper, and a soft chuckle travels through the crowd.
“To listen to you. And to be honest, and to ask for help when I need it. Because I love you, too. A lot.” He gives a big, serious nod, and shuffles back with a shy look when the guests chuckle again.
“Great job, buddy,” Hotch says, bending down to kiss him on the head.
Jack beams then, stepping back into Jess. She plants both hands on his shoulders and squeezes again, this time with more pride and she could express with words.
“If the couple could join hands again,” she prompts, and they do so, “Do you, Aaron Thomas Hotchner, take Y/N M/N L/N to be your wife, in the eyes of the law and those gathered here today?”
He has eyes only for his bride as he says: “I do.”
Jess looks at Y/N, who is equally entranced by the man in front of her. “And do you, Y/N M/N L/N, take Aaron Thomas Hotchner to be your husband, in the eyes of the law and those gathered here today?”
“I do.”
Jess feels the smile stretching wide and bright across her face as she declares:
“Then it is my great honor, standing before your friends and loved ones, to pronounce you husband and wife, and thereby unite you, in love, as a family.”
As the guests clap and cheer, Aaron kisses Y/N first, wrapping an arm around her waist as her hands cradle his face while he presses his lips to hers. Jess smiles, watching as they separate after just a moment, and Aaron reaches for Jack. He lifts him up in his arms, and Aaron and Y/N each press a kiss to one of Jack’s cheeks. Jess cannot help but feel joy swelling in her chest to hear Jack’s bright, delighted giggles.
~
Sean Hotchner doesn’t know his brother.
He began to realize this truth when his new sister-in-law’s letter brought him to his brother’s doorstep for the first time in years, and their ensuing conversation (or confrontation, depending on how you look at it), opened up more honesty between the brothers than had ever been shared before.
Over the span of just a few minutes, standing there in Aaron’s office, Sean came to the sudden and baffling conclusion that he doesn’t know his brother at all. He doesn’t know Aaron as well as this odd group of friends he has found, among FBI profilers and analysts and agents. The Aaron Hotchner they toast tonight, the man he can see reflected in their words, is completely different from the idea of a person Sean carried in his mind for so long.
Sean always thought Aaron was just a suit. A practically emotionless automaton who valued rules and laws and black and white ideals of right and wrong over the complicated emotional experiences of everyone else; an expensive, high-class, repressed emblem of the successful man; a symbol of everything Sean could never be– everything he told himself he never wanted: a government job, a retirement plan, a wife and son and a white picket fence.
But that was only what Sean could see– the assumption based on an outward appearance, a quick impression. He didn’t actually know. Now, he’s just beginning to learn the deeper, eye-opening truths about his brother– from Aaron’s family.
Odd as they are, mismatched and forged of friendship rather than blood, they are so clearly and deeply a family. He watches them where they sit together during the dinner reception, teasing and chatting, nudging and hugging, smiling and hugging.
Sean half expected to be shunted off to the back, among the distant cousins or unsavory coworkers, but sits instead at the table with the newlyweds themselves, between Jack and Haley’s sister, Jessica. He’s at the family table, he supposes, though he feels like a stranger to each of them, and that feeling increases when Aaron’s real family get up to give their toasts.
One of the bridesmaids goes first, Sean can’t remember her name, but he remembers her sparkly glasses and friendly face. She looks a little nervous, but smiles anyway as she taps the microphone and clears her throat, grabbing the attention of the guests.
“Hi! Hi, hi, hello everyone,” she begins, “For those who don’t know me, my name is Penelope Garcia, and I work with the bride and groom at the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
From her table, one of the other agents – Derek, Sean remembers his name – lets out a supportive whoop. Penelope lets out a little breath of a laugh, and seems to relax a bit, smiling.
“And I’m honored to talk a little bit about our beloved, beautiful bride over there. I’ll definitely end up talking about the groom too, but Rossi’s coming up here after me, so I’ll try not to step on his toes.”
“Damn right! These shoes were expensive!” The older agent – Dave, who hasn’t tried to hide his general disapproval of Sean so far – calls out, earning a laugh from the gathered guests.
“Exactly. So, anyway– I wanted to find the perfect story or memory to share that would say everything I could say about this wonderful, lovely woman. But there are too many! So bear with a small collection of facts and praises and probably plenty of tangents. Okay! Here we go.” She pulls a folded piece of paper from the neckline of her dress and unfolds it with a rustle, taking a deep breath before she begins to read: “The Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI is a weird place. It’s a hard job. We don’t get much sleep and we don’t have fun stories to tell at parties – unless you’re Dr. Spencer Reid and you consider stories about prolific serial killers ‘fun.’” That earns a laugh from most of the room, whom Sean can only assume are also FBI agents. “But it’s the best job I’ve ever had. It’s the kind of job that deserves and demands your whole heart, and when you do it well, you know you’re actually changing the world for the better. It takes some pretty special people to do that kind of work, and I’m proud to say I work with the best of the best. Two years ago, I thought our team was the best it could ever be: the six most talented profilers in the world– and me, their genius overlord. But then, one day, things got even better. Because Y/N joined our team, and became a part of our family.”
Penelope’s voice starts to wobble a little with emotion, and Sean glances at the newlyweds across the table. Aaron has Y/N’s hand held tight in his as they both watch their friend with expressions of tender affection. Penelope takes another breath, recovering.
“She’s really good at her job, of course, and she turned our frazzled unit into a well-oiled machine, but she also brought laughter and kindness and beauty. She really listens when you talk, she always remembers the little nonsense you share in small talk, and she’s able to balance her empathy and her rationality in a way that seems effortless, but I know takes an incredible level of skill. She is warm and welcoming and wonderful, and her presence has left us all lighter and brighter. Especially Hotch. And if I didn’t know him so well, or love him so much, I wouldn’t understand how he – or any man, for that matter, could deserve her. I’m heinously jealous, actually, because– look at her!” Penelope gestures to Y/N emphatically.
Y/N laughs, shaking her head, but Aaron looks distinctly smug, leaning back in his chair a bit.
“She is attentive and caring and somehow figured out how to throw the perfect celebration for a man who hates attention and his own birthday. She is a world-class baker and a playful parental partner. And she’s even more accomplished and accredited in her work than her new husband.”
Sean’s eyes widen, not so much at the revelation, but at his brother’s reaction. Because career-driven, success-oriented Aaron Hotchner doesn’t look upset, jealous, or strained. Instead, he looks incredibly proud as he lifts his wife’s hand clasped in his own, as if celebrating her victory.
“That’s right. She is Bureau-certified awesomeness.” Penelope continues, grinning at the small outbreak of applause. “And, I suppose, Hotch has proven himself worthy, with his adoration, respect, and generally making it clear he would move heaven and earth or part the seas to get her a cup of coffee. For a long time, it’s been clear that these are two people, two souls, who are meant to be together. And– sorry.”
She pauses again, fanning herself as she tears up, “How did you guys get through those vows earlier? Okay, Penny, don’t cry. Not yet. Okay okay okay– so, I was honored to witness the beginnings of a love story for the history books and the big screen. There was misunderstanding, dancing, peril and rescue, confession, vulnerability, trust, and laughter. Their story has been, after the struggles of sorrow and separation, one of long-deserved love. It will be a story of joy and discovery and support. It will be a special story, and one which I could hear over and over and still cry every time because I have never known two people more perfect for each other–” she furiously wipes away the tears that are now falling, lowering the paper to look at Y/N and Aaron as she says: “And I love you both endlessly. I know you will have it, but I wish you health, happiness, and a long, wonderful partnership anyway. Okay–” she laughs sheepishly, still crying, “To Y/N and Aaron!”
The wedding party echoes the toast, lifting their glasses for a drink. As Sean lowers his glass of champagne, he watches Y/N stand and throws her arms open, embracing her bridesmaid as Penelope rushes over, heels clacking against the floor. They rock from side to side for a moment before pulling back, and Sean watches with a measure of surprise as Penelope throws her arms around Aaron’s neck and he bends down happily to accommodate the hug, wrapping his arms around her middle. He even kisses her cheek as he pulls away. Sean feels a strange tightness in his chest, not quite jealousy, but a certain level of longing, as Penelope takes both their hands and squeezes before returning to her seat and a supportive embrace from Derek.
Sean turns back to see Dave stepping up to the microphone next, holding his tumbler of scotch in one hand and the mic in the other, dislodging it from the stand.
“And now, to follow that touching tribute, I’m here to present: the roast of Aaron Hotchner.” The guests laugh, and Sean hears Derek whoop again, but Dave shakes his head and smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Mostly. But I am here to talk about that handsome man over there. As Penelope mentioned, I’m David Rossi, and I have the honor of being able to say I have known Aaron Hotchner for nearly twenty years. That’s right, I’ve known him since cell phones were as big as your head and my hair was naturally this color. He looked exactly the same back then, by the way, even down to that signature scowl.”
Sean, like most of the other guests, glances at Aaron to see him purposefully keeping an unreadable, intimidating expression on his face. He only breaks when Y/N starts laughing, turning to her with a smile and leaning in for a quick kiss.
“But the Aaron Hotchner you see today is a different man than the one I met two decades ago. Back then, he was new to the Bureau, a field agent out of Seattle assigned to the case I’d come in to consult on, but already a force to be reckoned with. Naturally, I recruited him to the BAU, thinking I had it made with an easy future of using his skills to boost the reputation of my little experimental profiling team. Of course, within a decade he was already my boss. Twerp.” Dave shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink, letting the chuckles pass.
“Anyway, he was a machine– a career G-man, a model agent, yada yada yada. But the job always seemed to take more than it gave. I watched, for years, as he put his heart, body, and soul on the line for the sake of helping people, of seeking justice, and making the world safer. And I watched as he got hit, over and over, loss after loss, without rhyme or reason, I saw the most dedicated public servant and my closest friend go through the emotional ringer. I would have told him to quit if he weren’t so damn good at the job– if I didn’t think we’re all better off with him behind the wheel than sitting in the back seat. And now, I thank god I kept my mouth shut because finally, the job held up its side of the bargain in the form of a smart, beautiful, and completely lovely administrative liaison.”
A funny, sly sort of smile spreads across Dave’s face as he looks at Aaron, and Sean watches with intrigue as his brother tilts his head back and sighs as though he knows what’s coming and isn’t looking forward to it.
“Now, considering what an absolute fanatic he is now, it may surprise some of you to know that Aaron didn’t like Y/N very much when they first met. He was skeptical of adding a new team member, and, I think, a little afraid of what might happen if he opened up to such a smart, beautiful woman. But inevitably, with a little nudging from yours truly, he realized how wonderful she is. And it was all downhill from there. Honestly, with how hard and fast he fell in love with this woman, it was more like a sheer cliff than a hill.” That earns another round of murmured laughter. “All of a sudden, I was looking at a different man from the Aaron Hotchner that I met twenty years ago. Still sharp, still committed, but smiling now as well as scowling. There was a lightness to him, a hope and a sense of calm that– if it had ever been there before, had been lost in the grief of the last few years. With this love that he found, that she has helped cultivate, I’ve seen him realize he doesn’t have to carry the weight of everything on his shoulders. I’ve seen him understand the truth that we all already knew– he deserves to be happy. And I’ve never seen him happier than he is today.”
Dave pauses to clear his throat, nowhere near the level of emotion Penelope displayed, but Sean can see the sentiment in the older man’s gaze. “So, I am here to thank Y/N for making my best friend smile, and to wish you both all the happiness you deserve for the years to come. Please, once again raise your glasses to Aaron and Y/N!”
Sean, along with the other guests, lifts his glass and echoes the toast. Once again, Y/N and Aaron stand as Dave makes his way back to the tables. He reaches Y/N first, who clasps her hands on his arms and exchanges a kiss on each cheek before Aaron hauls him into a hug, wrapping his arms around the shorter man in a solid embrace.
It’s a brotherly embrace, and Sean feels a pang in his chest as he watches it– the love and support communicated through the gesture. He finds that the feeling, the ache, is one of envy. Despite the years of resentment, despite his anger, despite the silence and distance, he wishes he could give a speech tonight. He wishes he knew enough about his brother, this loving and loved man, to be able to celebrate him as he should.
To celebrate Y/N, too, for that matter. Her letter caught him off-guard, with its strange mix of welcoming invitation and strong protectiveness– a first impression which expanded when he met her in person and experienced both her warm personality and fierce love for his brother. This weekend has only further illustrated for Sean that at least as far as the people here are concerned, he would be lucky to call her friend, and has been blessed to be able to call her sister.
Sean watches as Aaron and Y/N make their own way to the microphone, hand-in-hand.
“Thank you both, Penelope and Dave, for those wonderful speeches.” Aaron speaks into the microphone and then moves to stand at Y/N’s shoulder, wrapping his arm around her back while she adds:
“We just wanted to get up and say a wider thank you to all of you for coming and celebrating with us today. It’s the happiest day of my life, and I know it wouldn’t be nearly as wonderful without all of you here to share the love and cake and in a few minutes, dancing! So thank you again, and we hope you continue to enjoy the party!”
Sean is distracted by the sight of Jack wiggling with excitement in his seat. Jack notices his uncle looking and asks:
“Are you gonna dance, Uncle Sean?”
He left Aaron’s first wedding before the cake had even been cut. Thinking about the expanse of time after this wedding, of returning to his lonely life in New York, Sean realizes that he may not know his family now, but that doesn’t mean it’s too late to get to know them. Today has given Sean a true sense of the love that comes with being a part of this family. They meet each other with humor, support, and understanding. He would be an idiot to walk away from all that.
“Only if you’re dancing with me, kiddo.”
Jack grins, and the warm satisfaction in Sean’s chest is enough to settle certainty in his heart– he’s here to stay.
~
For years to come, the wedding of Aaron Hotchner and Y/N L/N will be remembered by each of the guests as a wonderful night— one of the best. The DJ gets the first song, Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out,” playing, and – unsurprisingly – the BAU are the first people on the dance floor.
JJ loves dancing, she and Emily go out whenever they can on the few nights off when Will is looking after Henry. While Garcia dances all up on Morgan and he basks in the attention, JJ takes Reid’s hand and takes the lead. Reid loves dancing too, but he’s not as open or brave about it, and JJ knows that if she doesn’t push him to let loose a little tonight, he never will. He shuffles and stumbles a bit out of nerves, but JJ just laughs good-naturedly and leads on until his pinched look of concentration melts into a smile, and he finally relaxes.
When JJ looks around, she sees a small circle of their friends forming nearby. Henry, Emily, and Will are all dancing together, she can see, and she smiles as they’re joined by Jess, Jack, and Hotch’s brother Sean.
JJ feels a soft warmth spread through her chest at the odd, but joyful mixing of relationships– brought together by their children. She feels the swell of pride in her chest to think about what a kind, understanding family they have formed. The father of her son and her partner each holding one of her son’s hands as they swing him back and forth is just another example of the love which allowed Hotch’s ex-sister-in-law to recite the most beautiful wedding ceremony JJ has ever seen.
Despite each person’s past struggle and trauma, tonight, surrounded by a happy, loving family, there’s no denying they’re a lucky group of people– and all because they have each other.
Emily doesn’t usually like weddings. Sure, she likes the open bar and the golden oldies dance music and getting to dress up, but the whole legal commitment and promises for as long as you both shall live routine always made her feel a combination of cynical and inadequate. Of course, most of the weddings she’s been to before were high school classmates and distant cousins and she always went without a date (better than trying to explain her “female friend” to Uncle Ron), and were filled with those god-awful wooden signs and heteronormative bullshit. Basically, she always leaves early or drunk, or both.
This time, though, is different. From the beginning of the weekend, everyone and everything has felt calm and welcoming. The day is about Hotch and Y/N, sure, but they’ve never once made her feel like she’s had to act like anyone other than herself. No unflattering bridesmaid attire, no need to hide her relationship from homophobic extended family, no cliched or blatantly unrealistic promises of happiness and ease for all eternity.
And, as she does the Macarena with Henry and Will, watching Jack do the steps with his aunt and uncle nearby, she thinks about how lovely the ceremony was today– the warmth and glow of watching a family be united, rather than a woman promised to a man like a piece of property. If all weddings were like that, she might consider it for herself someday…
But she knows, deep down, as she switches direction for the next set of dance moves and sees Y/N and Hotch talking to one of Y/N’s old coworkers from CID, with Hotch’s arm around her back and her leaning comfortably into his side, that there was something about today that could never be recreated for herself or anyone else. That, as much as she could never admit to believing it out loud, she’s looking at two people meant to be committed to one another, meant to be connected in law and love and life.
Penelope always loves weddings. Or, more accurately, Penelope loves love. In her mind, there’s pretty much nothing that compares to the beautiful, overpowering feeling of love. For family, for friends, for partners, for lovers, for all of the above wrapped up into one day.
Love is in the air today, warm and sweet and breezy, uplifting everyone who stands in its wake. She’s been overwhelmed by it at times, letting out her excess of adoration through periodic bouts of crying. Happy-crying, but tears nonetheless.
She cried when she saw Y/N and Hotch walk down the aisle together. She cried again when Hotch started crying and kept crying until the ceremony was over. She cried at dinner when she saw Jack kneel on his chair to kiss Y/N on the cheek, and she cried again during her speech. And then one more time during Rossi’s speech, too.
Luckily, her big strong Morgan bear has been with her all day, hugging her when he can and making sure she stays hydrated through all the loss of fluids. She’s managed not to cry on the dance floor so far, distracted by how drop-dead gorgeous her hunka chunka looks in his subtly patterned black velvet suit, getting even more sexy after he got rid of his bowtie and popped the first two buttons. She grins and giggles as she busts out all her best moves – the sprinkler, the chicken, the dougie, and the fainting duck – while he dances like he should be starring in the next Step Up movie.
He twirls her once, and she shrieks in excitement to see the bride finally leading the groom to the dance floor after what seemed like an eternity of greeting and chatting with other guests. The couple join their son and his dance circle as the Beatles’ “Twist and Shout” gets started. Penelope snatches Derek’s hand and holds tight as Jack rushes to take each of his parents by the hand, pulling them in and doing exactly as the song says. They all look so happy, Penelope feels as though her heart might burst.
Morgan chuckles sympathetically as Penelope turns back to him, already crying again. He pulls her into his chest as hers swells with emotion– yearning and affection and happiness and heartache all at once.
Penelope forces herself to take a deep steadying breath, pulling back and looking at him with what she hopes is more determination than insanity before clamping her hand around his again, and weaving through the middle of the dance floor to where her family awaits.
Derek reaches out to clasp Hotch’s hand, bumping his shoulder into the groom’s and clapping him on the shoulder in congratulations as Y/N is distracted by Penelope pulling her into a little one-on-one dance.
Hotch smiles wide and bright, and Morgan shakes his head and grins at this man who is so different from the scowling suit he met over a decade ago.
Derek doesn’t know what it is to have a brother, but he imagines that Hotch is as close as he will ever get. His relationship with Hotch is different from his friendship with Reid. He and Reid cooperate and collaborate easily. Reid is Derek’s best friend, no question.
Hotch is too much like Derek to be his friend. They’ve been through too much, seen too much of the same hurt, grown into leaders and fighters in too much the same way to get along perfectly. They understand each other, in a way that is beyond words, and it’s why they clash, they argue, they compete. But at the end of the day, they respect one another— and they care.
Derek is happy to see Hotch happy. Not to the point of tears, like Penelope is, but he’s happy all the same. Because Y/N is happy too. And from day one, he knew she was like a sister to him. Strong-willed and smart, like the women he grew up with, the sisters who raised him, Derek knew he trusted her, and would do anything to make sure she had a smile on her face.
He sees her smiling now, shining with joy, as she breaks away from Penelope to hug him. Derek congratulates her too, wrapping his arms around her for a moment before letting go. He feels the calm warmth of happiness settled in his stomach as he watches her return to the arms of the only other man Derek can trust to ensure her health and happiness.
Spencer just wants to get back to his friends. He can see them all, dancing together now, just a few feet away. He lost JJ two songs ago, after a pretty young woman— one of Y/N’s cousins, he thinks — asked to cut in and he couldn’t figure out how to move his mouth to say anything at all, so settled for a nervous nod instead. She’s nice, and they’ve been talking a bit as they’ve danced. She’s a PhD student at Georgetown, studying microbiology, and she likes reading sci-fi dime novels in her free time.
Any other night, Spencer might have felt lucky, or been scrambling not to mess this up, but tonight as her hands settle on his shoulders and presses closer, he ducks out from under her arms and shuffles a few steps back. He stutters out a vague apology about the song and something about having a bad elbow and then squeezes past a few agents he recognizes from the tenth floor at Quantico.
He smiles, exhaling in relief as Y/N is the first to see him and mimes throwing a fishing line at him and reeling him in. He does a sort of shuffle-hop, his smile widening to a grin as Garcia cheers his arrival and JJ gives him a high-five (presumably for dancing with the pretty woman from before).
To his surprise, Hotch hugs him, and if he didn’t know better he’d think Hotch was drunk except Spencer has long-since made a habit of noting how much each of this friends have had to drink at any given social function and Hotch has only had one flute of champagne at dinner. No, the shine in his eyes and the warmth of his affection stems from pure joy, and Reid cannot help but feel a wide smile spreading across his own face in response.
He congratulates his friend and mentor, feeling more satisfaction from the clap of Hotch’s hand on his shoulder and the sisterly brush of Y/N’s lips on his cheek than he ever could from a pretty girl asking him to dance. With them, basking in the glow of their happiness, is more than enough for him.
Dave wasn’t planning on dancing tonight. It makes him feel old, trying not to look stiff and out of place on the dance floor with his younger friends. He’s sure he looks much cooler sticking to the sidelines, observing the amusing variations of skills and styles with his glass of scotch in hand, rather than mixing in and embarrassing himself.
At least during all these fast songs Hotch and Y/N put on their playlist. And even if they did play something slow, it would take quite the woman to get him to attempt a slow dance— he’s well past his prom king years.
But then the bride herself is coming off the dance floor and heading straight to him, a little out of breath and smiling wide, and he knows he won’t be able to refuse.
He teases her about losing her shadow, nodding to the groom whose eyes have not left her as long as she’s wandered away from him, but she just laughs and grabs Dave by the hand. It takes one look, just pleading enough, and he sighs, letting her drag him to the rest of their rag-tag little dancing team.
She must be able to sense his discomfort — she really would make a good profiler — because she humors him by keeping hold of one of his hands and putting the other on his shoulder, letting him stay in his old fashioned comfort zone.
He leads her through a few swing steps, relaxing with every sound of her laugh and sheer, unashamed fun of the group around them. He pulls her close enough to kiss the side of her head and tell her how beautiful she looks, and how proud of her he feels. As he spins her out and back, he feels a pang of sentiment in his chest, having forgotten, for just an instant, that she’s not actually his family.
Except she is. Aaron is, she is, they all are, in every way that counts.
~
The room feels much bigger now, even with all the tables and the lights set low, with just you and your husband left on the dance floor. The guests have all left, returning to their rooms or their cars, after one final cheer and plenty of hugs and kisses and last congratulations. Even the DJ has gone, having stepped out after pressing play on one last song.
As the slow, romantic melody of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” begins, you and Aaron draw close, your hands on his shoulders and his on your waist, slowly stepping and swaying to the music. You don’t speak, you don’t have to, not when the song expresses everything you could say in this moment. Instead you rest your head on his chest and he tilts his head so his cheek rests against your temple.
You can hear the steady thump of his heart, and you can feel the comforting warmth of his body, tucked close to this man you love with your entire heart and soul, who has promised his love to you for as long as that steady beat goes on.
It’s a profound feeling, and it’s one of certainty. He is yours, and you are his. You were bound together long before this day but have finally declared it in official, wonderful, lasting terms.
You couldn’t help falling in love, and you know you will never stop. It is your fate, in whatever form it may take, you will love him. And it is a fate you are more than happy to accept.
As the song fades to an end, he lifts his head and you lift yours, watching softly as he reaches for your left hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the edge of your palm where your new wedding band sits. You repeat his gesture, curling your fingers around his larger, rougher palm, kissing the back of his hand, below the knuckle, where he now wears his ring.
Then, in the same moment, as if of one mind, you lean up as he leans down and press your lips together in a sweet, lingering kiss. In that moment, even the empty room fades away, and it’s just the two of you— husband and wife.
Masterlist | As it Seems Masterlist | The Hotch Playlist
Summary: The BAU is accustomed to change – different cases every day, agents coming and going, roles changing – so the addition of a new member, an Administrative Liaison, should be no different. But the moment you arrive, everything changes for the better (Hotch just doesn’t realize it at first)…
Chapter Summary: The BAU family packs up and heads out for the weekend to celebrate your and Hotch’s wedding.
(A/N: Hello hello hello! I am so sorry it’s been so long. I promise I’ve not been off twiddling my thumbs-- I’ve been off living more life than I ever dreamed I would. Since my last update I’ve won a scriptwriting award at my uni, aced all my essays, traveled across four countries, and lost my virginity to a super hot and super sweet British boy 😅. I have missed this story the whole time, and I’m beyond excited to finally share the long awaited wedding with you-- split into three chapters. The second installment should be out in a week or so. No promises this time though, since I’m not yet back home in the U.S. I’m typing this author’s note from a beautiful little flat in Edinburgh. Anyway! Read, enjoy, comment, send me chats! I missed you all very much <3)
Hotch has never been too proud to admit he’s a workaholic. The BAU has always been more than just a job, it’s a calling, a mission. He’s found friends, fulfillment, and even family through his work. Once, he might have said it was his life. Now, it’s a part of his life. A priority, to be sure, but third in line behind his son and his marriage.
Which is why, on the Friday before his wedding, he’s counting down the seconds until it’s time to leave the office. He’s been working, yes, but always with one eye on the clock as he finalized all his recent case paperwork, clearing out his inbox, and setting an “out of office” automatic reply for any new messages coming in over the next week. He met with Prentiss in the morning, prepping her for taking point on any cases that might come up while he and Y/N are on their honeymoon.
They’ll be leaving from the wedding venue for the airport on Sunday, and packed all their luggage the night before. He can picture her suitcase sitting next to his in the trunk of his car, ready to go.
When he married Haley, they didn’t have enough money for a honeymoon. Her father was willing to pay for the wedding, but the honeymoon was up to them, and they decided it would be better to save up for a vacation later. They’d gone on a handful of trips over the years, but they didn’t feel the same, all those years settled into the marriage.
He’s excited to show Y/N around Seattle for a day and then spend a week, just the two of them, in a little island cottage. He’s excited to start the next phase of their life together, to add to their growing gallery of shared memories and experiences. He’s also looking forward to the wedding.
It’s not that he wasn’t excited for his wedding the first time around, just that he was most exhilarated to be marrying Haley. The wedding itself felt incidental, especially because he wasn’t allowed to give much of his own input into the planning. Haley and her mother had everything organized to the tiniest detail, and at the time he didn’t really mind– as long as he got to marry Haley at the end of the day, he was happy.
This time, though, he’s been an equal partner in the planning process. He and Y/N chose the venue, the guest list, the menu, the invitation style, the flowers, the itinerary, the music, all together. Of course, they wrote their vows separately as a surprise for the other, and she’s promised she and Jack have one more surprise planned for him (but won’t give any more hints than that). Having worked up to this weekend, to this day, planning everything for the last few months, he can’t wait to finally experience it all.
And, even if it all goes wrong, as long as he gets to marry her at the end of the day, he’ll be happy.
So at five o’clock, he shuts down his computer, clears his desk, and grabs his briefcase. After locking his office door, he pauses on the raised walkway for a moment to look out at the bullpen.
JJ and Emily are already heading for the door, JJ looking back to give him a wave goodbye which he returns before they disappear into the corridor beyond the BAU. Rossi walks out of his office to Hotch’s right, shrugging his jacket on.
“You’re still here?” Rossi asks, turning back to lock his door as well.
“Nothing’s going to start without us.” Hotch says.
“True enough.” Rossi chuckles, standing next to him for a moment, looking out at the office as well.
Morgan takes Garcia’s garment bag, carrying it over his shoulder as they flank Reid’s desk, jostling and teasing him into finishing whatever obscure research he’s been engrossed in. He shuts off his monitor and grabs his duffel bag from next to his desk, hurriedly escaping Morgan’s attempt to rustle his hair. They walk together to the glass doors, laughing and chatting, past Y/N’s desk.
She remains oblivious to it all, leaning towards her computer, squinting with focus, as she’s done all day. Every time Hotch glanced out of his office window, she’s been working through as much paperwork as she can, planning contingencies, double-checking instructions for Anderson (who will be taking over her desk while she and Hotch are gone), and generally losing track of time.
“Has she moved since lunch?” Rossi asks.
“Probably not.”
“And I thought you were bad.” Rossi reaches out to pat Hotch on the shoulder. “I’m going to head out, but you better drag her away from that desk before too long. I’m counting on that free bar for the rehearsal dinner tonight.”
Hotch huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he trails Rossi down the steps to the main office floor. Rossi heads for the door, while Hotch slows to a stop in front of Y/N’s desk.
She doesn’t seem to notice his figure looming behind her computer, focused on proofreading a document. She scans a few lines before glancing down at her keyboard while she makes an edit. He watches, his chest warming with affection and admiration, for a moment before it looks like she’s starting over (probably triple-checking), and he loudly clears his throat. She startles slightly, blinking rapidly as her focus adjusts to something other than her computer screen.
“Oh! Hi!”
“Hello,” he says, “What are you working on?”
“Oh, just this thing for Grant for next week. It’s like a cheat-sheet, kinda, for my color-coding and file organization system.”
She trails off, her gaze wandering back to the screen before she hits the backspace and then the hyphen twice, before looking back up at him.
“Did you need something?”
He doesn’t bother trying to quell his smile. “I was just wondering if you could tell me the time.”
She gives him a confused look, her glance dropping to his watch before she flips over her phone to check the homescreen.
“Oh shit.” She looks back up at him, eyes wide. “I swear it was three o’clock half an hour ago. Okay, I’m almost done, I promise. Let me just send this email…”
She clicks a few more times, and then types some more, her fingers flying across the keyboard with expertise before the glow of the screen disappears from her face and she pushes her chair back. Hotch grabs her bag for her, waiting while she stretches for a moment after sitting for so long.
“Alright.” She grins, looping her arm through his as they walk towards the doors. “Let's get married.”
~
“This place is like a movie set.” Garcia wanders ahead of Morgan, as they walk into the rehearsal dinner.
The downstairs dining room is all soft lighting, slanted wooden ceilings, and sliding glass doors to the deck outside, opening into the cool June night. The long dinner table is set, but the food won’t be served for another few minutes, so everyone is mostly standing around talking.
You and Hotch have the run of a big mountain lodge for the weekend, and you’re kicking it off with a small gathering of the bridal party, along with close friends and family. Jack and Henry are racing a couple of toy cars in front of the sliding glass doors leading to the wraparound porch, while Jessica and Will stand by the fireplace, keeping an eye on the boys while they chat. JJ and Emily talk with Rossi by the bar, while Reid and Hotch are mid-conversation about some recent article about hostage negotiation by the dining room table.
“Wait until you see the reception space tomorrow,” you smile, “It puts my high school Pinterest board to shame.”
“I can’t wait!” Garcia squeals.
“So you’re excited?” Morgan asks, but there’s a teasing lilt to his tone. “Not thinking twice about getting hitched to that nerd over there?”
“Well, I’d rather marry Garcia, but she’s not available.”
“What?! Why didn’t you say so?” Garcia exclaims, shoving Morgan away and hooking her arm through yours, “Let’s ditch these idiots and take over the world!”
“Garcia, are you calling me an idiot?”
Hotch appears at your other side with his stern poker face on, and Garcia immediately jumps away from you and practically hides behind Morgan.
“Of course not! I would never!”
“Except he is, about…thirty percent of the time.” You argue, turning to your fiancée with a cheeky smile.
“Thirty?” He pretends to be taken aback. You tilt your head in a show of calculated disagreement.
“Excuse me,” one of the lodge employees, Marcus, who’s helping coordinate your wedding, steps into the dining room and catches your eye. “Dinner is ready to be served, if your party is all here?”
You glance around the room for a quick headcount, your heart sinking as you realize one person is still missing– Sean. As far as you know, he hasn’t checked into the lodge yet, and you haven’t gotten a phone call or a text, or even an email to say he’s running late.
“Actually, I think we’re still waiting on one.”
“No, we should start.” Hotch says, and you turn to look at him, finding a disappointed, but resigned expression on his face. “He could be here in an hour, or not at all.”
You search his face. “Are you sure?”
He doesn’t talk about it, but as far as you can tell, things with Sean have been getting better. They’ve been texting– you know because Hotch handed you his phone to get your opinion on the two suit options Sean had sent him. You and Hotch both agreed he should wear blue, to match Jack.
They aren’t exactly best friends, but you thought they were making progress. You really believed Sean would show up, that he would be there for Hotch.
“I’m sure,” Hotch takes your hand and squeezes gently, “He could be here in an hour, or not at all.”
“Okay,” you nod before smiling at Marcus, “Looks like we’re ready!”
“Great!” Marcus nods, “We’ll start bringing in the food.”
The rehearsal dinner spread comes courtesy of Jack, who got very excited at the lodge restaurant’s specialty: artisanal pizza. You and Hotch chose a few extra types (Jack would have picked ten plain cheese pizzas for the whole group), and the party seems to enjoy the non-traditional menu.
You spend most of the meal chatting to Will, who you haven’t had much of a chance to get to know before. Both he and his accent are charming, and you enjoy hearing about his time growing up in New Orleans and his experiences in Metro PD. You can see how JJ could have loved him once, but hearing him talk about his job and Henry helps you understand more fully how he couldn’t hold a candle to Emily.
Hotch joins your conversation from time to time, when he’s not focused on Jack, who sits on his other side. As plates are emptying and the chatter dies down, however, Hotch stands and clears his throat, getting everyone’s attention.
“As you all know, tomorrow is a big day, but tonight you’re all here because you are our family.” His expression and tone are pleasant, but you notice his gaze flick toward the empty seat at the table. “And we wanted to take a moment to thank you all– for your support, your planning, your love, and for being here. Because we–” he looks down at you and smiles, his gaze warm and happy before he looks out at the table again, “–wouldn’t be here without you.”
“So naturally,” you stand up as well, “We’re going to test how much you love us.”
You make eye contact with Jack and nod towards his play bag. He grins and hops down out of his chair to retrieve the stack of mini-whiteboards the two of you had co-opted from an old board game, handing one to each guest, along with a marker.
“While our wonderful assistant comes around with the supplies, Aaron will explain the rules.”
“We’re calling this the ‘Soon-to-be-Wed Game’ which might give an idea of the rules to those of you from a certain generation.” He begins, chuckling as Rossi lifts his glass in a toast. “Y/N will ask a series of seven questions, and you’ll write the answers on your boards one at a time. I’ll be writing the answers too, and if your answer matches mine, you get a point. The person with the most points at the end wins a prize. Jack will be keeping score.”
“What’s the prize?” Garcia asks, and you can already see her cutthroat competitive side emerging.
Hotch smirks. “Would you be satisfied if I said it was our undying love and affection?”
The chorus responds: “No!”
“Well, it’s not just that.” He says, “But it is a surprise prize, so you’ll have to wait, play the game, and then find out.”
“Ugh,” Garcia scoffs, “Fine.”
“Alright, players!” You begin, putting on a bit of a gameshow persona as Hotch sits down and accepts his own whiteboard from Jack. “Here’s the first question: Where did Aaron and I meet?”
It’s a clean sweep of correct answers across the room: at the BAU.
“And,” you grin, never one to turn down the opportunity to tease, “As many of you remember, when we first met Aaron didn’t like me very much. So…at what event did his feelings change (according to him)?”
Prentiss protests this one, shaking her head in disbelief, but attempting an answer anyway, while Garcia scribbles on her own board with furious conviction. This one goes about half and half, with Jess, Garcia, Rossi, and JJ all getting it right: the FBI Awards Banquet.
“Okay, okay, question number three: Aaron and I both proposed on our one-year anniversary, but who proposed first?”
Another round of perfect scores for: Y/N.
“That’s more like it. Let’s see if you can get this one: What restaurant did Aaron take me to on our first date?”
This one proves harder. Only Garcia, Reid, and Rossi get it right (with many smug smiles to accompany the allotted points): La Vie.
“Where are we going for our honeymoon?”
Jack, as the scorekeeper, is harsh with this one, only counting Prentiss and Reid’s answers as correct because it matches Hotch’s answer: the San Juan Islands. The near-guesses of “Pacific Northwest” or “Seattle” get thrown out, much to Garcia’s indignation.
“Who said ‘I love you’ first?”
The answers are written in record time on this one, with knowing smiles and teasing grins all around: Hotch.
“You guys didn’t even have to guess on that one, did you?” You chuckle, “Okay last one before we go into tie-breakers: who wins the most at Clue?”
Once again, only one person gets it right – to several claims at it being a trick question – with Jess writing: Jack.
“Okay, my scorekeeper tells me we’ve got Jess, Garcia, Rossi, and Prentiss all in the bonus round. This one is speed-based, so the first to hit their buzzer gets to answer.”
You wait until Jack has handed out four of the“that was easy” buttons you’d picked up from Staples earlier, before he comes to stand next to Hotch, leaning into his dad with an excited smile.
“Ready, contestants?”
“Yes!” Garcia looks ready to pounce.
“Tomorrow will become our new anniversary, but our old anniversary will always have a special meaning, first as the day we said we loved each other for the first time, and then the day we both proposed. What date is that anniversary?”
Prentiss throws her hands up in immediate defeat, and Jess hesitates, but Garcia and Rossi both slam their hands down on the red buttons and shout out the correct date in unison.
You’re taken aback by their ferocity, blinking at Hotch who looks at you with raised eyebrows and amusement in his eyes.
“It’s in my calendar.” Rossi says.
“I wrote it in my diary!” Garcia argues, as if either of their additions makes them somehow more correct.
“I think Y/N and Hotch should get a restraining order against you two,” Morgan jokes.
“Well, you’re both correct, and you answered at exactly the same time…but I think the prize can be split two ways?”
You look between Hotch and Jack for confirmation. They nod, and Jack hands you the prize. You present a little plastic trophy to Rossi and a little plastic crown to Garcia, both rewards accepted with great pride.
“Oh my god, oh my god, I’m never ever ever taking this off I love it so much!” Garcia exclaims, flapping her hands excitedly.
Rossi squints at the fine print of the trophy, looking at you with one eyebrow raised. “‘World’s Greatest Grandma’?”
“If the shoe fits…” Hotch says quietly, and you nudge his shoulder with your hip.
You shrug, smiling at Rossi. “If you don’t want it–”
“No, no,” he holds the plastic accessory close to his chest, “I’ve been meaning to add some decorations to my office. This will do nicely.”
Hotch curls his arm around your waist and your hand settles against his back as you share a smile. You’re about to suggest finding Marcus and telling him everyone’s ready for the dessert course when a new, but not unfamiliar, voice speaks up from the other side of the room:
“Looks like I missed all the excitement.”
You turn, surprise sparking in your chest, to see Sean standing in the doorway. He’s wearing the same leather jacket and backpack as the day you met him, but has a garment bag slung casually over his shoulder. You wonder absently whether there’s ever a moment when he doesn’t look like he just walked out of a Hollister ad.
“Uncle Sean!” Jack is the first to react, barrelling across the room and straight into his uncle.
Sean lets out a small ‘oof’ at the impact, but reaches his free hand down to pat Jack on the back.
“What’s up, little man?”
Hotch stands, and you follow as he walks over to Sean, the two of you inadvertently addressing Sean at the same time:
“You made it!”
“You’re late.”
Sean smiles, looking sheepish, reaching up to run his hand through his hair and Jack backs up to stand in front of you leaning his head back against your tummy as you wait for Sean’s explanation.
“I got saddled with a double at the restaurant when one of my guys decided to quit this morning. Missed the train and had to catch a later one, and then my cell died on the bus from the train station.” He talks mostly to you, only glancing sparingly at Hotch’s unreadable expression. “I know I probably sound like the boy who cried wolf, but I swear–”
Sean falters to a stop as Hotch reaches out and settles a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Hotch says. “It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah,” Sean says, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh of relief. “You too.”
“Have you eaten?” You ask, “They haven’t cleared the dinner spread yet, and dessert should be coming soon.”
“I should probably take this stuff to my room.” He says, lifting the garment bag.
“I’ll take care of it.” Hotch holds out his hand, flexing his fingers when Sean hesitates, “You’ve had a long day. Sit and eat.”
“Yeah, come have some pizza!” Jack encourages, “It’s really really good.”
“Well,” Sean gives in, “I can’t say no to really really good pizza.”
He gives Hotch his suit and you take his backpack, watching as Jack takes Sean by the hand and drags him over to the table, authoritatively listing all the different toppings and types Sean could try. You look back at Hotch to find him watching them still, his jaw set and his eyes soft.
“I’ll take the stuff up to his room.” You offer, gesturing for Hotch to hand you the suit. “You should be with your brother.”
He looks at you, and you can tell he considers arguing for a moment, asking if you’re sure, or some other form of hesitation. Instead, he hands over the garment bag and leans in to kiss your forehead and says softly:
“Thank you.”
~
On the morning of the wedding, Hotch wakes up early.
The curtains in their private cabin beyond the mountain lodge are drawn, the blue-gray light of the pre-dawn hours peeking through the edges. He stares up at the ceiling, just making out the vaulted wooden beams in the half-darkness. He traces the lines with his gaze, and listens to the soft cycle of his fiancée’s breathing.
In a matter of hours, she will be his wife. That thought has joyful anticipation expanding in his chest, and he lets out a long exhale, feeling the excitement settle throughout his body.
She stirs, inhaling deeply as she rolls over and drapes her arm over his chest, resting her cheek against his shoulder with a sigh. Instinctively, he shifts to accommodate her, moving to wrap his arm around her waist and hold her against his side.
“I was dreaming,” she says, her voice soft and sleepy, “That we got married.”
He hums, fighting a smile as he turns his head to kiss the top of her head, speaking into her hair. “And how was it?”
“Good,” she sighs again, “I couldn’t really see where we were. Everything around us was sort of…blurry. But I could see you. And you held my hands and kissed me, and no one said anything, but when I woke up,” She pulls back enough to tilt her face up towards him, and he can just make out the contours of her face, and the waking gleam in her eye. “I knew we were married.”
“That sounds lovely.” He leans in and kisses her.
She smiles, breaking the kiss long enough to say, “Yeah, I think I’d like to do it again,” before pressing her lips to his once more.
“We can arrange that.”
They lie there together a while longer, not really talking, just holding each other, basking in the warmth and quiet of the happiness still to come. Until eventually, as the birdsong begins outside and the light shifts from blue-gray to white-gold, they rise and open the curtains, and then walk down to the lake. Jessica is there with Jack, since the morning swim was promised on Jack’s request, and JJ and Morgan and Reid, but everyone else remains asleep up at the lodge.
The trees have all been cleared by the little beach and the sunlight, shining clear and unblocked by any clouds, helps warm the air a bit. Y/N, tossing aside Hotch’s old law school sweatshirt she’d been wearing to cover her swimsuit before walking into the lake, squeals at the cold of the early June water. Still she rushes forward and then dives, completely submerging herself before coming back up with an exhilarated gasp.
Hotch watches her with a kind of quiet awe, feeling love and appreciation and unbelievable gratitude that he lives in a world where he could possibly deserve her. He lets the feeling settle into the background of his mind, however, in order to take one of Jack’s hands while Morgan takes the other, and together they heave and ho and then toss the boy headlong into the water. Jack comes back up splashing and laughing and grabs Hotch’s hand again, dragging his father in with him.
Hotch grits his teeth against the shock of the cold, feeling his nerves come alive. He swims towards Y/N, who catches Jack as he comes flying out of the water, leaving a sparkling stream of water in the air for an instant. She wraps her arms tight around him and grins, telling him to hold his breath, before she dunks them both. Hotch reaches them as they come back up, shaking the water from their eyes and laughing. Jack pushes away to try some underwater somersaults, and Hotch happily takes his place, wrapping his arms around Y/N.
Her arms come to rest on his shoulders, her hands clasped behind his head as she presses closer. “You’re still so warm.”
“Personal space heater, at your service.” He says, leaning down for a kiss.
She kisses back, just a bit, before they’re being splashed from three different sides by the other adults finally braving the water.
“Save it for the ceremony, you two!” Jessica teases, and then turns away and holds up her hands as Y/N splashes back.
As invigorating as the water is, Hotch doesn’t stay in the lake for much longer. He and Jessica are the first to get out – feeling very cold and a little bit old – while Morgan and JJ race across the width of the lake and back, and Y/N teaches Jack how to do an underwater handstand. Soon enough, though, everyone is happy to dash for their big fluffy towels and hurry inside for a hot shower.
Hotch and Y/N return to their cabin and fill the clawfoot tub in the bathroom with steaming water. Hotch gets in first, and Y/N follows, settling with her back to his chest. He runs a sudsy cloth over her shoulders and back, and she does the same to his arms, before they take turns massaging shampoo into each other’s hair, filling the bath with swirling currents of soap and suds.
On any other day, Hotch would wish they could stay that way for hours, wrapped up in the soft care they hold for one another. But today, something even better awaits them.
As the water turns tepid and her stomach begins to growl, he helps her out of the tub and lets the water drain as they dry themselves off. They get dressed again, this time in a white blouse and linen trousers for her and a black polo and jeans for him, before they walk hand-in-hand up to the lodge.
The dinner spread from the night before has been replaced by a brunch buffet for the bridal party. Will and Henry, Reid, JJ, Prentiss, and Morgan are all already there when Hotch and Y/N arrive. Jack and Jessica arrive while Hotch is filling a plate with fresh fruit and pastries for Y/N, which Jack gallantly delivers before coming back to request his own spread of exclusively chocolate croissants. Hotch manages to sneak in a few strawberries before Jack is off to go sit with Henry, and then makes a plate for himself with a slice of quiche lorraine and a cup of coffee.
Y/N is talking to Garcia, who arrived not too long ago, just after Rossi. Hotch sits down at the table next to her, content to listen to the always-comforting tones of her voice.
“Big day,” a plate drops onto the table on Hotch’s other side, and Sean takes a seat. “How are you feeling, big brother?”
Hotch’s reflex is to deflect, to create distance. Don’t say too much, don’t engage too much. Protect himself from the potential pain of vulnerability with his brother. But then Y/N’s leg shifts under the table, her thigh pressing gentle and warm against his, and Hotch remembers that this is different. The way things used to be do not dictate the way things are now.
“I’m happy. Happier than I think I’ve ever been.”
It’s a simple truth, but a profound one nonetheless. He is happy, but not in a giddy, manic, fleeting way. He’s happy in his bones, feeling a deep-set contentment that is new but not foreign, unprecedented but welcomed all the same.
“You look happy.” Sean says, and then huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, “For a while there, I didn’t think you ever would.”
“Neither did I.”
He didn’t. He knew he could feel moments of happiness, fleeting instances, with Haley, with Jack, with his job and with his team, but he never thought he would feel the kind of happiness that’s powerful enough to shine through the hardened exterior of his scars and scowls– the kind he feels with her.
Sean nods, and then looks around, clearly wanting to turn the subject away from the tragedies which have plagued both their lives. “It’s a nice place. Cozy. How’d you find it?”
“My best man has been married three times.” Hotch covers the smile pulling at his lips with a sip of coffee, “He had come recommendations.”
“Dave got married here?”
“No, but he considered it.” Hotch nods to Rossi as he sits down across the table. “For the third wedding, wasn’t it?”
Rossi gives a tired nod, tearing a piece of toast in half. “It was too small. You couldn’t fit half of my extended Italian family in this place.”
“How big is the guest-list for today? Is this it?” Sean asks, looking around the room.
“Not quite.” Y/N turns to join the conversation. “This is the close friends and family half. We have a few more friends and colleagues driving in for the ceremony and reception.”
“But only the special people get to stay in the hotel.” Garcia winks. “Welcome to the Illuminati, bud.”
“What’s the Illuminati?” Jack asks, popping up behind Sean’s chair.
Hotch looks to Y/N, but she shrugs like she expects him to explain, and then they both watch with a mix of relief and trepidation as Garcia tries to define a conspiracy theory for a six-year-old.
The chatter and the coffee flow for a while longer, before Y/N grabs Hotch’s wrist to check his watch, and then declares it’s time to get ready.
From the beginning, Hotch and Y/N agreed they wanted a relaxed wedding. Not unplanned, but not adhering to tradition for tradition’s sake. They wanted a day where everyone can have a good time, where they can simply enjoy the celebration of their love and commitment– not only as a couple, but as a family.
They didn’t set a seating plan, or pick a color scheme, or fuss over what shape the napkins would be folded into. And they refused to follow the separation tradition. The idea that the bride and groom shouldn’t see each other before walking down the aisle made some level of sense, the reveal, the suspense, the feeling of being together until death do us part becoming sweeter by the time spent apart.
But it never really made sense for them.
In terms of emotional commitment, for Hotch, today is the same as any day since the beginning of their relationship. He was prepared to take her for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, for as long as he may live, from the moment he first feared he could lose her. Today just happens to be the day he can codify his commitment in the eyes of the law and his loved ones.
To him, taking time away from her for the sake of a tradition would only lessen the meaning of the day. It would only interrupt his lingering sense of joyful contentment with impatient longing.
When he asked her about it, requesting that they forego the separation, she agreed. “It’s tied up with antiquated ideas of sexual purity anyway,” she said, with a mischievous smile, “We’re already living in sin. May as well make the most of it.” He couldn’t help but laugh, and wonder for the umpteenth time what he ever did to deserve her.
So they have an upstairs suite reserved to act as dressing rooms, where the bridal party migrates, make-up kits and garment bags in hand. The rest of the BAU gathers in one room, with a handful of standing partitions set up for a bit of privacy – although after years of cases and changing in police department locker rooms, there isn’t much to be shy about anymore.
While Y/N sits in front of the mirror in that room, patiently having her hair and makeup done by the combined efforts of her bridesmaids, Hotch helps Jack get dressed in the other room.
They’ve each got their shirts and dress pants and shoes on when Hotch kneels down to carefully do up each of the tiny buttons on his son’s shirt. Jack stands more still than Hotch expects– especially considering all the sugar he just ate at brunch. Hotch glances at his son’s expression, turned thoughtful and a bit serious. He’s at eye-level now when Hotch kneels, already growing so fast– too fast.
“You okay, buddy?” Hotch asks, brushing his hand through Jack’s hair.
“Uh-huh,” he nods, but won’t meet Hotch’s gaze.
It’s a big day, for everyone, but perhaps most fraught in emotion for Jack– even if he’s trying to be brave by not admitting it.
Hotch nods, smoothing his hands over Jack’s small shoulders. “Oh yeah. Remember how there’s going to be a few times where Aunt Jessica will ask me to say my vows? I don’t want to forget any of it or say them the wrong way, but there will be a lot of people there and I’ll be feeling a lot of feelings.”
Jack nods, looking down and sniffling a little.
“But do you want to know what I do to feel less nervous?”
“What?” Jack breathes, searching his father’s face.
“I take three deep breaths.” He says, and then inhales and exhales, smiling as Jack does it too, breathing with him. “And I remember that it’s a big day, but we’re spending it with people who love us and support us. No one will make a mistake, but even if they did, no one would mind. It will be okay.”
Jack nods again, this time with more energy.
“Can you say that? It would help me to hear it.”
“It’ll be okay,” Jack says, “Don’t worry, Daddy.”
“Thank you.” Hotch kisses the top of Jack’s head. “Ready for your tie?”
“Yeah,” Jack smiles, the sweet gleam returning to his eyes.
Hotch helps him with the little blue and white striped clip-on bow-tie, and then has him turn around to get his arms in the sleeves of the tiny blue suit jacket. Jack has turned back around for Hotch to smooth the lapels when a soft knock sounds at the door.
It opens a crack and Y/N’s voice carries through. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah!” Jack dashes over and pulls open the door.
“Oh, I love your bow-tie, Jack!” Y/N exclaims, holding her dress by its hanger with one hand and her shoes in the other. Her hair falls around her face in a familiar, but elegant way, her eyes and lips accentuated by her makeup in a way that has his chest squeezing.
“He picked it out himself.” Hotch says, getting to his feet.
“You, sir, have excellent taste.” She smiles.
Jack looks a little bashful. “Thanks.”
“Hey, is my man Jack in there?” Morgan pokes his head in, grinning as he spots Jack, “I could use your help out here, big guy.”
Jack jumps at the chance, always enamored with his uncle Derek. He dashes out, and Morgan closes the door with a wink, leaving Hotch and Y/N alone. While Hotch and Y/N get dressed, the others will make their way downstairs, joining the other guests who have presumably arrived by now, and await the beginning of the ceremony.
Y/N steps further into the room, smiling almost shyly in the soft early-afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains.
“You look beautiful.” He says, the words pushing their way out of his chest with little heed to his thoughts.
She smiles, glowing even brighter with confidence. “Just wait until you see me in this gorgeous dress Penelope made.”
He raises his eyebrows and holds out his hands in an expectant gesture. She hands over the dress, which he carefully unzips and takes off the hanger while she pulls off her blouse and trousers, laying them aside.
It used to be her mother’s dress, he knows. In its original form, it was all 1980s, with a high neck and puffy sleeves and big skirt. But Garcia has transformed it, he can tell, as he helps his wife-to-be step into the creamy fabric. She turns so he can zip it up her back, and he takes his time, careful and slow, pausing to lay a soft kiss to the back of her neck before stepping away.
As she does a little spin, he appreciates how the dress is sleeker now, lighter, with short sleeves and a deeper smoother neckline. Noticeably the same vintage fabric, with hints of the old style, but updated– passed down and made anew. The dress is beautiful, but is undeniably outshone by the radiant glow that surrounds her, dress or no dress.
“Gorgeous.” He says, finding no other word than that, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “Although one thing is missing.”
She watches with curiosity as he picks up a jewelry box from the bed, holding it out and opening the lid to reveal the delicate emerald necklace he’s held onto since his trip to the jewelry store with Jack, all the way back in February.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she says, tentatively tracing the gems, and then looks up at him with a soft look, “To match my engagement ring?”
He nods, and then lifts the necklace from the box, carefully clasping it around her neck. The pendant falls perfectly at the base of her throat, dark and sparkling above the creamy neckline of her dress.
She turns around and touches his cheek, leaning in to leave a chaste kiss to the other, careful not to leave a lipstick mark behind.
“Thank you. It’s perfect.”
He can’t resist a kiss to her cheek in return. “Just like you.”
She grins, pulling back with her hands on his shoulders, looking him up and down. “I can’t help but notice you’re missing something too.”
She steps back and reaches into the pockets of her discarded trousers, pulling out a carefully wrapped necktie. Hotch smiles, feeling warmth expanding in his chest as she moves close again, sliding the tie beneath his collar.
“Armani?” He asks, just getting a flash of the fancy silk as she folds and loops the fabric.
“Of course.” She scoffs playfully. “My husband deserves no less.”
His hands settle at her hips, his fingers flexing reflexively at that word. Husband. His heart beats a tick faster, and he forces a long breath through his nose, willing himself to be patient. Soon enough, he’ll hear her call him that again. And then again and again for as long as they both shall live.
“When did you get so good at tying ties?” He asks, smiling softly at her expression of keen concentration.
“I’ve been practicing.” She admits, finishing the knot and pulling it tight, “Besides, I’ve gotten so good at untying them, it wasn’t too hard to figure out how to reverse the process.” She steps back and examines her work for a moment before nodding in approval.
She turns to grab his suit jacket while Hotch shrugs on his vest and fastens the buttons. As he tucks his tie into the vest, he can’t help the smile on his face any more than he can keep his eyes off her, wonderful, beautiful, inimitable as she is. She smiles back, soft, warm, and loving, as she helps him into the jacket, coming around to stand in front of him as she smooths the lapels, letting her hand rest over his heart for a moment.
They settle into the quiet stillness, sharing looks in the soft silence as he kneels down to slip her shoes on her feet, allowing himself a kiss to each ankle before carefully lowering the hem of her dress and standing once more.
She curls her hand around the back of his head and pulls him in for a gentle, reverent kiss. She pulls back, smiling gently as she brushes her thumb over his lips, wiping away any trace of her lipstick. He kisses the pad of her thumb before she lowers her hand to his, lacing their fingers together.
hiiiii i just wanted to say i love all of your cm fics & cannot wait to binge read as it seems from beginning to end 🩷🩷
i am so incredibly excited!
Hi my darling!!
This message just put a big ol’ smile on my face 🥰
Hopefully I’ll get to the end of As it Seems soon, so you won’t have to wait another year to read the whole thing 😅 but knowing myself and my over-ambitious outlines…I make no promises
Anyway I love you as always and thank you so much for the sweet message 😘
what if (at some point in the future of the fic obviously), instead of others mistaking reader for jack's biological mother, jack slips up and addresses reader as some form of mother title, and how it'd be received?
i hope to god this hasn't sent as many times as i've typed it because every time i break typing to think that app crashed god bless 🫠🫠🫠🫠
This may or may not be slight spoilers for later chapters of As It Seems, so if you don't want to know anything coming up, then ignore the rest of this post...
It doesn't happen until you and Hotch have been married for a while, and probably not seriously until after there's another Baby Hotchner in the mix.
Because Baby Hotchner calls Hotch "Da-da" and you "Ma-ma," and once they're more verbal, "Mommy and Daddy," and then "Mom and Dad" and...you get the picture.
Anyway, it was easy for Jack to accept you as parent. It was harder for him to think of you as "Mom." But once there was a little sibling around saying "Mama" and "Mommy" all the time, and he realizes that other than the whole gross giving birth thing, his relationship with you isn't all that different. Besides, it was confusing for Baby Hotchner to hear Jack call Mommy "Y/N" instead, especially when you don't treat him any different from his sibling.
And eventually, he stops thinking about you differently. In his head, it's "Dad and Mom are coming to pick me up," and "Mom is taking us to the park" and one day in a moment of distraction or on the verge of a good night's sleep, he calls you mom.
He doesn't even notice, but you go completely still and swear your heart nearly stops and you talk to Hotch about it that night, unsure of what to do.
When you decide to let it go in case it was just a fluke, it happens again, and again, and then you and Hotch bring it up gently and say that if he wants to call you mom, he can, and it doesn't have to be all the time, but you think of him as your son, and no name will change that.
i just binge read your hotch series while procrastinating doing my uni assignments 🫣 it’s honestly the best thing ive read in a while im obsessed!!!! could i pls be added to the taglist?
Ahhhhh I'm so glad you liked it!!! (now get those uni assignments done ;P)
The only reason there's not a new chapter rn is because I'm trying NOT to procrastinate my assignments. Once all my summatives are handed in at the end of May, I'll be back to writing what I actually want to write.
You've been added to the taglist for when that eventually happens <3
Hey! I just finished binge reading your hotch series and although I'm not sure if you're still accepting names for your taglist, I would really love to be included. If not, its okay. I'll just follow you and turn on ny notifications. BUT EITHER WAY, I LOVE THE SERIES!!! Its one of the best fanfics I've read in my entire life. It has the right amount of feelings and angst and platonic relationships and all that jazz. I really hope you continue with your journey as a writer cuz you deserve all the love and support for your truly wonderful writing. The way you write each character's insights and feelings just satisfies me so much cuz their thoughts are so well described. Couldn't really comment on every chapter cuz I don't like spamming anyone's motifications so I'm just dumping everything all at once here hehehe I should probably stop my ask here cuz its getting too long but THANK YOU FOR YOUR WRITING I LOVE U! 🥹🫶
Ah! This was exactly what I needed to read today. Thank you so much for your kind words!
And thank you even more for reading and enjoying As It Seems. I've added you to the taglist, though I can't promise when the next chapter will be out.
I know it's been a while already, but my life continues to be the busiest it's ever been...anyway I so appreciate your time and your feedback and I hope you know you've put a big smile on my face!
so maybe it's now because i just KNOW hotch does it better than jay i just know it and i feel like if he ever found that out (however that would work out lol) he'd take quite a bit of pride in it fr that man loves his gf so hard but i feel like somewhere in there he is still a little insecure because he really cannot fathom being appreciated the way he deserves by her so he sort of guiltily lords things like that over jay in his subconscious. like. "yeah i'm old and i'm grumpy and have significantly more baggage than him but i fuck better than he did so 😙 hah"
the time is NOW and the place is HERE (for real, this just sparked an entire drabble, I hope all you horny little freaks enjoy)
Warning: Explicit Sexual Content Ahead (below the break)
Hotch would be lying if he said he didn't wonder-- how he compares. You know where you stand, with him, in his...relatively limited experience (in terms of sexual partners). He knows Jay was a terrible romantic partner, and he knows you know, but he has to wonder: did you let Jay hang around so long because he was a good partner in other ways?
Jay is young, there's no denying, and physically fit. Hotch wonders, not without a flare of insecurity, whether you miss having a partner who could get hard right away, whose stamina could last all night, whose back doesn't start to hurt after one round. Still, you never complain, and his pride won't let him ask outright: "Am I better at sex than your shitty ex-boyfriend?"
So he's left to wonder until one night, about six months into the relationship, after a nice dinner date, when things are getting heated back at your apartment. It's one of those nights when he can tell you're feeling confident, and after three glasses of wine you start giving him that look that makes him more than willing to do absolutely anything you ask. Which is how he ended up naked despite you still having your bra and underwear on while you suck his dick.
He never asks you too. It still feels like too much, too...inconsiderate. But when you want to, dear god, do you show it. And you wanted to tonight.
And it feels so good, but he still -- he always -- wants to finish inside you, with you. So before he loses himself, he buries his fingers in your hair and tugs gently, finding his voice hoarse.
"Okay, that's good-- that's enough now," he nearly loses it at the sight of you pulling off of him, meeting his gaze with hooded eyes. "Your turn."
You hum, reaching behind your back to unhook your bra. "My turn can wait. I want you inside of me."
He tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck."
"I think I have condoms in the side table." You say, shifting to pull off your underwear.
He rolls over to reach for the drawer and pulls it open. His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he rolls back, holding the contents of the drawer: a massaging vibrator.
You turn back from tossing your bra and underwear away, your eyes going wide.
"Oh shit," you meet his half-teasing, half-questioning gaze. "I forgot that was in there, I swear."
He arches an eyebrow.
"Seriously," you insist, "I haven't used it in so long the batteries are probably dead."
You try to grab it, but he holds it out of your reach.
"When was the last time?" He asks.
"That I used it?"
He nods.
"God, I don't know," you huff, "Probably right before I broke up with Jay."
This surprises him, and he drops his arm back down. "Really?"
"Oh yeah," you laugh, taking it from him successfully and looking down at the sex toy, "I call it DG, for 'delayed gratification.'"
Hotch frowns. "As in--"
You wince. "Yeah. DG would visit after Jay went home...if you know what I mean."
He thinks he should feel vindicated, but Hotch just feels a flash of anger at the revelation.
"He never...not once?"
"I think twice? Maybe? He could get me close, but-- why are we talking about this anyway?" You shake your head, looking a little embarrassed, "Now is not the time to be talking about all the bad sex I used to have."
Hotch feels pride beginning swell, and he smirks. "Used to have?"
You roll your eyes, but he sees your gaze begin to darken again as you crawl closer and settle in his lap.
"What, do you need me to tell you you're better at sex than my ex was?"
"Of course not," Hotch says, unable to keep the smirk from rising to his face again, "But I wouldn't mind hearing it."
You sigh, but smile and hold his gaze with honesty as you say: "Aaron Hotchner, you are the best sex I've ever had."
Pride flares warm in his chest. He feels big, in every possible sense, and while he generally feels confident enough not to bother with comparisons, knowing that he, out of every man you've been with, and especially in contrast to Jay, is the best, makes him feel like he can do anything.
"Can I get that in writing?"
"Shut up." You kiss him, and roll your hips against his, getting him back to the task at hand.
Which includes grabbing your wrist as you move to put the vibrator back in the drawer.
"If the batteries still work," Hotch takes it from you, and tests the switch, smiling as the toy hums to life, "I think we could give DG a new name."
