Books are Realistic Fantasies

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Happy Father’s Day!

First of all a Million thanks to my absolutely brilliant friend peetasbunmyoven for the beyond beautiful drabble. I had to cry like crazy after I’ve read this. She is literally a rock star!

It’s never taken much to wake me. When I was young it was the stick of Prim’s skin, the wet of cotton sheets in high summer, or often the swell of hunger in my belly begging to be fed. Any and all of that brought my eyes open hours before the sun and I rarely wasted a second of it.

A moment awake was a moment I could be feeding my family. A moment I was responsible for so very young. Too young. I think about this all the time. The life I lead. The days and nights and the emptiness I knew so well beneath my ribs. The sound and taste of hunger. It is something that will never leave me and I welcome it actually. It helps me remember. It helps me to breathe and be grateful and smile when Peeta smiles at me in front of the fire and I go dizzy with love from what we have made.

It’s never taken much to wake me. But the first night she stirred like a ripple beneath my skin I sat up so fast the world spun. The world spun and I gasped and Peeta gaped and finally collapsed in a frantic heap of laughter and tears with the simple joy of it. I was terrified and he was kissing me and we both could do nothing but watch in awe as life, pure and beautiful and unthreatened stretched inside me.

It’s never taken much to wake me.

But instincts are my thing. Life and survival and family and food… so the cries of my daughter carried through the air before dawn settled natural and easy like an extension of my limbs. I never hesitated. I expected to be terrified but every night her trembling pink lips would settle to my chest and the relief and love nearly stole the breath from my lungs. Peeta’s big palm would lay upon her tiny form and the rough callous of his thumb as he stroked her head nearly made me shake with how much I wanted to say.

I’ve never been good at saying something. But her sigh. His body near mine. The smell and feel of my precious family made tears desperate and happy soak my pillow once they had both drifted to sleep without me.

It’s never taken much to wake me.

That’s why the nights he steals her away I am already awake. He doesn’t know. It would ruin the precious simple fun of hearing his sleepy rough voice whisper to our little girl.

He paints worlds with his simply beautiful words. She’s going to learn eventually that not everything is beautiful and that magic isn’t real but in the hours before the sun sets fire to the world what’s the worry with not disturbing them? At least once a week he leaps from our bed. His footfalls will never been as silent as he believes as he steals to her crib. He’s trying to let me rest. Give me a break. But goodness I know him. I know that these moments…when she’s cradled in his arms and across his broad chest he’s so happy. So simply and beautifully happy it makes my heart ache. I love him. I think maybe I always did. But I find myself overwhelmed with it often. He snuck up on me. Love for this man, the boy he was, the father he now is, it saturates me. It soaks into me and over me and drowns me in it and I my god I revel in it. In what I am looking at now.

It’s never taken much to wake me. But Peeta whispering promises and passing hope to our daughter in the moonlight is something worth watching. His waves look bronze in the room and stick out in a mess of sleep. He nearly looks like the boy who would shyly watch me from years ago. But I see the differences even with my eyes closed. I see the lines near his eyes that rival the sky in June. I see the scar that starts behind his soft pink ear and that grows beneath the worn cotton of his sleep shirt. I can feel his heart that stopped once. Absorb the smile that I thought was lost when all he could do was sneer at the sound of my voice. I know the foot crossed over his knee as he rocks her gently is false and made of metal. Cold where he is warm and forever a reminder that he chose me time and time again. I watch him. He watches her. I don’t interrupt. But oh how I love them. Need them. Once upon a time he told me at his weakest he couldn’t let me go. I never want him too. He rocks her. Hums rough and low and I can hear her sigh as her little lips pop off her bottle as I ease out of the room.

It’s never taken much to wake me.