Natasha was right: there were definitely more children than adults in this town that had a favorable opinion of their only living victor. Scott had tried, in the seven years since coming home, to live modestly. To stay true to his roots. But he also wasn't going to turn down a home that, while excessive, was insulated well enough to keep out the worst of a District 12 winter. If it was only him, things might have turned out differently. He might have stayed in the two-room house he'd inherited after his father passed, working his hands to the bone in the mines just to keep them occupied. He might have started using a stiff drink or six to help him sleep at night. Maggie and Cassie had been part of the equation since his name had been called, though, and many of the luxurious choices he'd made upon returning a victor had been with them in mind.
That didn't prevent his neighbors from begrudging his current circumstances, although Scott suspected they were conveniently forgetting that he hadn't volunteered for this. Increased his chances, maybe, but that was out of the same guilt that had led him to invite them to birthdays and to barbecues. He had wealth, he wasn't opposed to spreading it. People were just resistant to the idea of being spread to. It seemed to boil down to the fact that he was an other in Twelve. He was a have in a town full of have nots, and that was an automatic red letter, no matter how generous he was.
There were, of course, exceptions. Maggie's social circle had always been kind to him, pretending he'd never been to the arena at all. It was easier to do when there was only one victor in the house, though. Three was pushing it a bit - hence the hushed way the adults were now speaking down the hall. Scott flashed Natasha a small, reassuring smile when he saw her eyes had flickered toward the living room, deciding he'd rather let their guests get all their whispering out before making a move to introduce anyone. "Oh, I've got an iron will now, believe me," he said, of caving to Clint, and let his gaze settle on said overgrown child as he plopped down post-plane inspection.
He'd been half way to suggesting that they put the toy together after cake when Clint dropped his I'm-here-if-you-want-to-talk. It was a nice gesture, really, but there were so many things that were currently not okay - a passionless marriage, his kid's slow but inevitable march toward arena eligibility, the insanity inherent in burgling Capitol elites - that it seemed wrong to unload here. "Always." He sounded confident, at least. "You want to meet everybody?" Whispering be damned, he was trying to escape talking about his feelings.