Hi there, loves! As an attempt at getting back into writing again, I decided to do a 100 drabble challenge for my one favorite ship here on earth. It's the same I'm doing on tumblr if any of you happen to know me from there. Feedback is appreciated. xx

DRABBLE NUMBER: 1
PROMPT: Baby
TITLE: Not Anymore
GENRE: Angst, Hurt/comfort
FIC SUMMARY: Cato and Clove have won the games together and their lives are now controlled by the Capitol. A drunk husband and a screaming child wasn't what Clove wanted from life, and she is deeply unhappy with how things are, though she comes to discover that it might not be as bad as she thinks.
RATING: Teen
WORD COUNT: 2925

The clock on the nightstand had just passed 3 at night, but Clove was still awake, staring at the changing numbers as the time slowly passed. She knew she should have been sleeping, grabbing at every ounce of sleep she could get, but she was still waiting for it to find her. Though it was hard to sleep with everything running through her busy, violent mind, and a baby in the other room who could start screaming every second.

As if the baby heard its mother's thoughts, as if on cue; she started wailing, loud wails that she knew would annoy her husband who was sleeping soundly at her side. Soundly maybe wasn't the right word for it; passed out seemed more fitting. Passed out after all the vodka he had been drinking all day. He reeked of alcohol and Clove had used to find it hard to sleep next to him when he was like this, but after a year of it, Clove simply didn't care anymore.

Though Cato seemed to be asleep, he stirred awake at the baby's loud, piercing wails, grunting almost as loudly as the child in annoyance. Clove turned her head to look at him, not feeling like stepping out of the bed to soothe their baby. She was tired. So tired of taking care of a baby, especially because she found it hard to care, so tired of being a mother, and especially because she didn't seem to have a maternal bone in her entire body, and also because she had never wanted to be one in the first place.

She waited a few seconds, still watching her husband slowly come out of his foggy haze of sleep, looking like hell had crashed down on him once he actually opened his eyes and seemed somewhat conscious. He looked around confused as if he couldn't locate where the sound was coming from, and rubbed his eyes roughly with his hand. "Clove," he growled lowly but harshly at her, his hand still covering his face. She noticed how his forehead was all scrunched up, as if he had a major headache, and knowing Cato and his drinking habits, he probably had. "Get the fucking kid." He didn't wait for her reply, or even wait with finishing his own sentence before attempting to push her roughly out of the bed.

Clove, who had learned to except everything from her short-tempered, violent husband, was somewhat prepared and gave a kick, aiming at his groin. She could hear his fast intake of breath but the lack off curses and growing anger suggested that she had hit somewhere less painful like the stomach or his thigh. Still, her kick had been on her way to fall out of the bed, as her husband seemed to had wanted so badly and she barely had the time to kick out her feet before landing somewhat clumsily on them on the soft carpet. She picked up her pillow, and threw it at him with all the force she could muster on her way out, hearing him huff at the impact. Before she stepped out the door, she hissed, "Asshole," at him loudly, the venom in her voice aiming to sting, but she knew nothing she said ever would.

Funnily enough, ironic really, tears were stinging her eyes after the more than normal exchange with her husband, something she had had to cope with quite a lot lately. It was actually a travesty, the fact that Clove sometimes couldn't hold the tears back when her upbringing stated so clearly that she should never cry. Ever. It showed weakness, and as a career, as a victor, she couldn't afford to be weak. But most of all it made her hate herself.

It had started with the pregnancy, and only gotten worse later on. During her pregnancy, the doctor had explained it as 'hormones' and told her they wouldn't bother her as much once she had given birth and when everything went back to normal. But Clove had waited, and waited, and now three months after having given birth to her baby girl, nothing had changed. She could still find herself crying at things she wouldn't have dreamed of crying about before. She didn't even know if she was crying because of something, or if she just cried to cry. But it bothered her more than anything and she thought gratefully how happy she was that Cato hadn't seen her like that. He had only seen her cry once, and that was the only time he was ever going to see, she had decided. Not that it would be a problem as her husband had paid more attention to booze than his wife lately.

She reached the baby's room, and made her way to her crib, clenching her jaw at the loud sound the child was making. Clove found it strange how such a small body could make that large of a sound, but it was even stranger how her heart seemed to unwillingly clench at the unhappy wail. She wanted the child to stop, not only because it was loud and annoying, but because she didn't want the child to have a reason to cry. Or maybe it was like it's mother and cried because of nothing.

The baby's official name was Gwendolyn, and Clove found it a horrible name to name a child. It was the Capitol's decision, where they had made a game out of what Clove would name her then unborn child, and they had voted and bet on what it would be. It had been like this ever since she and Cato had both made it out of the games, from the details of their wedding, to the decision that they would have a baby, to their social life, and even the furniture was carefully put in place by designers from the Capitol. It made her feel claustrophobic and helpless, but there was nothing Clove could do about it and she knew that.

But even if the baby's name was officially Gwendolyn, neither Clove or Cato called her that. To Clove she was simply 'the baby'. Not 'my baby', not 'my and Cato's' just, 'the baby', though she knew her husband liked to refer to her as 'the fucking kid'. It was no secret that becoming a father at the age of nineteen had been Cato's biggest nightmare, and he managed to remind her of it every single day.

Clove had to keep herself from snapping harshly at the child, having learned that it certainly didn't help when the goal was to calm her down. So as gently as she could, she picked up the baby and cradled her in her arms, like she had eventually figured out was the best way to hold the girl. It was frightening to Clove how small and fragile the baby was, how it wasn't able to protect itself against all the dangers of the world. Clove knew that it was her job, but so far all the dangers they had faced were slight hunger and a diaper needing to be changed, and it was not Clove's kind of danger.

She was bored with her life; she felt captured. She was like a bird who never was let out of it's cage, and longed for the feeling of air beneath her wings. She wanted to use her beloved knives, she wanted to fight and be the murderous warrior she had been brought up to be. Not this mess of a person with a baby she still didn't know how to truly care for. Clove probably never would either.

But most of all she missed her husband. Cato who had been her one and only, her lover and her enemy at the same time. Cato who did everything to get her fired up and then proceeded to kiss her because he liked her like that in bed. Cato who was abusive and infuriating and probably would have killed her on the spot if the rule change hadn't come along. She missed his annoying ways and furious outbursts. He had lost himself in the haze of alcohol, he didn't kiss her anymore, he didn't tease her, he didn't taunt her or play the twisted games he loved so much with her, and everything about him made her angry. And not in a good way.

Holding the still crying child, Clove considered walking back to her bed and taking the baby with so maybe they both would fall asleep. But she knew Cato would be against it and she wasn't in the mood for their abusive games tonight. Sighing, she sat down at the top of the stairs instead, not being bothered with walking all the way down them to sit in one of the many sofas and chairs downstairs.

Looking down at the baby, she tried to figure out why she was still screaming. Often the baby just needed to be held and would stop once she got picked up, but Clove suspected she was hungry, and moved to take off her loose tank top. It was easier that way, she had discovered, less things to concentrate on while she fed the creature. Though taking it off was easier said than done with a baby in her arms, and she used a good amount of time on doing it without accidentally hitting or hurting the child where she rested in her lap, her tiny feet kicking her mother in the stomach. She hadn't always been that careful doing things around the baby, and often she had to pay for it, having to listen to the baby's screams and cries.

Cradling the baby once again in her arms, she could feel her tiny mouth starting to search her mother's skin for the food she knew was there somewhere. Clove helped her, guiding her breast towards the baby's mouth, and then the familiar suckling started. It still felt strange to her, the feeling of having the child drink from her breast, like it was something she didn't deserve to experience.

There were still tears in Clove's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. It was beneath her, so far beneath her. The baby was looking at her with watchful eyes, and Clove stared right back. Clove couldn't even begin to understand what was going on in the baby's mind, what it thought and what it felt. And she didn't really want to know either, because she was sure that if the baby was able to form an intelligent thought, the thought would be how much of a horrible mother Clove was.

Was that what Clove was crying about? She tried to feel if that was the case, but she honestly didn't know. After a life of oppressing and ignoring every emotion except fury and that much-needed and praised blood-lust, Clove didn't know how to read her other emotions. She didn't even know how to identify them. She sighed once more, staring down at her baby, looking into it's blue eyes, those she had gotten from her father. She was so pure and innocent, but it was almost like Clove could feel it slipping away from her with every day she lived, with every time Clove laid her own murderous hands on the small child. "In ten years you're going to be just as fucked up as us," she told the baby softly, not sure what to feel about the matter.

She knew the baby would be reaped for the games, and Clove was going to make sure she was the best she could be because no child of hers was going to die in the arena. The thought was almost like a punch to her chest, taking her breath away for a second or two, and surprising her greatly. She really didn't want her baby to die.

Clove was suddenly aware of someone behind her, recognizing her husband's steps right away. She didn't turn around, she didn't say anything, simply continued to look down at the baby and watched as her drinking slowed down as she got fuller. Cato's side brushed hers as he sat down beside her, his large frame barely fitting beside hers at the top of the stairs. She still didn't look at him, she didn't really care to and for once she didn't feel like looking away from the baby. But most of all she didn't want her husband to see the tears burning in her eyes and which were alarmingly close to falling.

It was silent between them for a long time, like it usually was. Neither Clove and Cato were people of many words, and except from their bickering or fighting, they usually didn't talk. The baby didn't really seem to be drinking anymore either, she was just chewing with her toothless gums on her mother's breast and taking a sip of the milk every now and then.

Clove was content with the silence, but by the looks of it, her husband had other thoughts. Cato was the first one to break the silence, or at least to acknowledge the other by grabbing his wife's chin quite harshly, turning her head towards him and leaning in to place a kiss on her mouth. Usually that meant that he wanted something from her; sex, a favor, but he didn't actually get to the kissing part this time, not right away. His face stopped before hers, and she could see the hesitation and confusion flash over his face once he could see the tears that was still welling up in his wife's eyes.

All of a sudden the mood was completely changed around them and Clove despised the fact that she had just let him see her weak and vulnerable. Though almost as quickly as his confusion came, it went away and he kissed her roughly. Clove could taste the alcohol on his lips, his breath reeking still and he looked like he hadn't slept in months.

She looked slightly down as he broke the kiss, not wanting to see the look on his face. Instead she she cleared her throat, wanting to sound as much as her usual self as possible. "You look like hell," she told him harshly, but was annoyed her voice lacked it's usual venom. Cato grunted something incomprehensible in response, though she could feel his gaze on her still. Clove bit her lip and looked down at the baby, noticing she was no longer suckling at her breast, but instead watching her parents, mesmerized.

Clove guided her breast in her daughter's mouth once more, only for the baby to spit it out, which Clove had learned meant that she was full. She could feel Cato staring at her from beside her as well, and being so naked, even if it was in front of her husband who had seen her like this countless times, made her feel slightly uncomfortable. "Here," Clove simply said, handing him their daughter and giving him no choice. If he didn't take her, she would fall, possibly down the stairs even, and she really hoped Cato wasn't stupid enough to do drop her like that, even if he wasn't the biggest fan of his daughter or his wife for that matter. Clove just hoped he didn't hate the baby that much.

Cato protested but in the end had no choice, and let Clove place the baby in his arms. Or rather arm, being how Cato's arm was so large and the child so little, her head could fit perfectly in his hand and her body on his lower arm. Clove searched for the tank top she had thrown away, and quickly slipped it on, amazed to discover that Cato was watching the baby instead of his half-naked wife.

Again, it was silence. Clove liked it that way, but she also didn't know what to say to her husband because usually they only fought or bickered. But somehow this didn't seem like the right moment to pick a fight, and instead she wound up just looking at her husband and the child they were forced to have together, wondering why he still hadn't given her back to her once Clove's hands were free like he usually did whenever he a rare time had to hold her.

"She looks like you," Cato said eventually in a quiet voice, speaking as gentle as she had ever heard him. Clove searched his face confused, seeing his eyes still fixated on the baby. She cocked her head slightly, trying to see what Cato saw but failed. Except from the baby's black hair, the baby looked nothing like her; all Clove could see when she looked at her was Cato.

"She has your eyes," Clove said after a while, mirroring his quiet voice even though she found it strange and unfamiliar.

Cato looked at Clove then, seeming more sober than he had been in months as he wrapped his arm around his wife's waist and pulled her closer to him. She had never experienced something like it before, and it made her uncertain because Cato was harsh and brutal, and she didn't understand why he wasn't acting like it. Clove didn't understand Cato's intentions but eventually decided not to care, just for tonight, because even if it was unfamiliar and strange, it didn't feel bad.

And after a while she gave in to her own wishes, leaning into her husband, and resting her head on his shoulder. She could feel the deep sigh go through her husband's body as if it had gone through her own. "Yeah," he said slowly and Clove realized this was his way of showing that he cared. Brutal, murderous and slightly insane – yes, but a father and a husband all the same.

Clove didn't feel like crying anymore.