post-mockingjay drabble (recommended song: butterfly lullaby by possimiste)

Through a warm, sleepy blanket of darkness, a crack of sound breaks through.

My eyelids feel too heavy to lift, and they make this exhaustingly known as I try to wake up.

I fight my way through the haze of drowsiness toward it. The noise is a small, mewling wail that sounds surprisingly close to me. I shift slightly in bed before I realize that it is my child, and I drag myself the rest of the way to wakefulness.

I stir, stretching my sore limbs, and feel a small warm weight near my breast, lying next to me. My baby. Her whimpering rises steadily in volume, her small wrinkled face screwing up into what soon promises to be a cry that may wake the whole of District 12.

"Oh, it's okay. It's okay, sweet girl. Come here."

I sit up against a mountain of pillows, every muscle screaming protest as I lift my daughter into my arms. This is the first that either one of us has been awake since the birth. A little while after I gave her to Peeta to hold I had begun to drift off, and I requested that she sleep next to me. So she and I had lay side by side, tears still trickling down my cheeks as I touched her small, perfect face. She wriggled around a little, her eyes wide and curious, before her eyelids drooped and she went to sleep. I soon drifted off too, one arm around my baby, protecting her.

I unbutton the front of my nightgown and bring my fretting child up to my breast.

"Are you hungry?" I say to her but really to nobody since I know she cannot understand me and is making too much noise herself to hear me anyway. She seems to debate on whether or not she is hungry until she latches on and quiets almost immediately as she starts to eat. It's a weird feeling, but not painful.

"There you go," I whisper.

She eats for a while before refusing any more, and I rebutton my nightgown. She looks up at me in wonder with those bright, sweet blue eyes that are purely Peeta's. I decide I want to just hold her for a little while.

I reach out and gently touch her soft cheek with my finger, trailing up to her dark patch of hair and then descending to her arm, to her tiny hand that covers maybe half of my palm. She clasps my finger in her fist, squeezing lightly. I gently lean down and press my lips to her hand. Then I kiss her head lightly.

"Hi," I whisper. She just watches me. I can't keep the exhausted smile off my face. Slowly I lift her to my heart, one hand on her back as I pat and rub it gently. She jerks a little alarmingly at the sudden change of position before settling into the crook of my neck, her fist closing around a handful of my nightgown. It's like she already knows and loves me, and I love her so much it scares me.

What I am scared of is damaging this child's trust and love for me, of ruining any form of innocence she has. Even the moment Peeta pulled her out and the moment she was on my chest, her ear pressed to my heartbeat as I grabbed her and held her close while Peeta and I sobbed joyfully along with her, she held some kind of delicate innocence, an unburdened soul that stared me right in my damaged face and trusted me wholeheartedly, stopping her crying to gaze at me.

If there is anything I'm afraid of now, it's watching that innocence get stolen. It's watching that pure light in my daughter's eyes die, to be replaced by confusion, or anger, or sorrow. Or distrust.

I do realize now that there are no Hunger Games, no Reapings that I could lose her to. It doesn't mean I won't always fear it. Our only formidable enemy now is the press, and even they have backed off in the recent years, though occasionally they would attempt to get pictures or interviews of me with a pregnant belly. I'm afraid she will be harassed by the press as well. That is a tangible fear, still.

"I'll protect you," I say aloud suddenly, wondering myself where in the world that came from. "I'll protect you, sweet girl. I promise. I promise."

I kiss her head again and hold her close. I'm amazed how easily she fits in my arms. Like she was always meant to be there. She stirs a little and yawns before nestling under my chin again.

The door creaks. Peeta has been downstairs, presumably sleeping on the couch to give me and the baby enough room on the bed. Though he didn't have to; there is enough room for all three of us.

"She okay?"

"She's fine," I say, trying to move a little to make room for my husband and wincing as the reminder of what my lower region has recently been through shoots bolts of pain through me. "Just hungry."

"No, no, it's fine. I'll make room. You stay still."

Peeta gently slips an arm under my bent knees and with his other hand supporting my back, he moves me and the baby over a little on the bed. Then he gets under the covers next to us. I rest against him, my head leaning into the crook of his neck. He puts one arm around me and reaches toward the baby with his other hand.

I lift the baby off of my front and cradle her in my arms. Peeta gently touches her cheek and hair like I had before he whispers "Hi there."

The baby looks at him a little curiously before her eyelids droop again and the corners of her mouth turn upward into a small, sleepy smile.

"Did you see that?" says Peeta, tears already beginning in his eyes.

I smile as Peeta's finger also gets clasped in our daughter's small hand and he lets out a choked laugh, some stray tears falling.

Peeta is going to be a good father. I'm certain of it. Every tear that has filled his eyes in the past day has been swollen with love for our baby, and the minute she came out he burst into tears, saying she is so beautiful, she is so beautiful Katniss.

"She's ours," says Peeta. "I can't believe it. She's really all ours."

I smile at him and he kisses me fiercely. I can taste some of his tears. Peeta kisses me once or twice more on the lips before he plants one on my forehead and hugs me a little closer to him. I nestle into him as much as I am able while I'm holding the baby. She makes a small sound, puckering her lips, before settling against me again. Peeta gazes at her like she's made of gold, a hand reaching out to touch her face and her hand and her arm, as if making sure she's real.

I think I always knew Peeta would be a wonderful father. Which makes me think, now, that maybe kids weren't that terrible of an idea.

We sit there in the early hours of dawn, gazing at the baby, knowing we might not have any more sleep tonight and not really caring.

And I know, as I look at my baby and feel so happy and terrified all at once, that this is right.