A/N: A sequel of sorts to Incentives. I decided to try a stream-of-conciousness style for this one. Enjoy! Warnings: Brief nudity. Nothing else serious.

iixii

Adrenaline

by wheatleyandrews

iixii

A crash. There was a loud crash. The crash of an egg hitting the floor, but a thousand times louder. Like thunder. And then a buzz. Real eggs don't explode with hundreds of wasps. But that one did.

I dreamt the same dream as the night before, wishing to be back in my kitchen, the little summer kitchen in the backyard, beside the peach grove. I remember Dad fixing it up for me for my 10th birthday. Before then, the summer kitchen was even worse than most buildings in 12. The roof was riddled with holes, the floorboards were all loose and the walls were infested with ants. But in a month, and with a few week's profit from the bakery, the summer kitchen became my space, with a coal stove, a full set of cabinets, a water pump and a fully stocked larder.

"A chef needs his own space, just like artists need their studios. A place to experiment, try new things. Learn right from wrong." I miss his voice. "Peeta Mellark, one day you're going to be just as good a baker." He even put in a bay window and a door facing out to the road that runs behind the bakery. He said that the summer kitchen was my bakery, and when I wasn't helping Mom bake the bread, churn the butter, decorate the cakes or tend the chickens I could go in there and create whatever I wanted. My weekly allowance became a few cups of flour, some yeast, some baking soda. And when the train came from the Capitol once a month, an ounce or two of chocolate. Sweets, cookies and muffins and scones, quickly became my specialty. I made some money here and there, selling to classmates and even the occasional Peacekeeper.

It's just before dawn on a Sunday. Dad's bakery is closed for the single day of rest. The sun just peeks into the sky, tinting everything peach orange in the morning light. I fill the bucket with coal from the hopper, just enough for the oven to run for an hour or two. The flagstones through the peach grove lead me to my bakery's door, through the tall grasses snaking their way around the trunks of the peach trees and in between the stones. The lock sticks like always when I turn the key, and the door creaks open after some effort. It's not a very large space, but the cream-colored walls striped with yellow are warm and welcoming as gold flows in through the bay window. I flip the paper card in the window. 'Open for business'.

I load the coal in the oven and light a match. It takes a few minutes for the oven to warm up, and I keep the back door to the bakery open so I don't bake along with my cookies. The larder has a clutch of eggs and a little butter. I assemble my ingredients and pull my apron from its hook. It's a hand-me-down from Dad, and even though every day for six years it's been exposed to the heated, sweet-scented air of my bakery, it still smells of his signature hearty bread. It's huge on me; its end flaps around my ankles and the strings are long enough that I can loop them around my back and onto my front, making it easier to tie securely. I pull the strings tight and feel safe in the apron's embrace.

The recipe's finicky, but I can remember it all by memory. Every step must be in order; one after the next. The regularity of it comforts me. A cup of flour, a teaspoon of soda, a dash of salt. You've got to be precise with dry ingredients; it's all chemistry and chemical reactions. Level them off and mix them together. A cup of butter and a cup of maple sugar. Beat them until the sugar's evenly spread in the butter. Harder than it sounds, but the exercise is good for my arms. I run through the next steps in my mind; mixing the eggs and vanilla, putting the dry and wet together, adding the oats, forming the cookies and baking. The sugar finally looks even after ten minutes or so. I break out in a light sweat from the elbow grease and heat.

A single egg. Fold into the butter and sugar. I find the largest one in the larder. I can crack them one-handed; it's a skill you develop ove-

Shit, dropped it. Damn sweaty palms. Before the egg even touches the ground, while it's still speeding in midair, my hand instinctively reaches for the salt.

And then, a crack. Like thunder. A thousand times louder than I'm used to. I blink and I'm not in my bakery anymore. It's a forest. As far as I can see, anyway. Where's my pristine butter and sugar? The ground is strewn with twigs and leaves. There's the egg. But it was a white egg I dropped, not brown, and it definitely wasn't that big. And what the hell is the black cloud coming out from it?

A pained, torturous scream. Right then, my mind clears in an instant. I'm a tribute in the Hunger Games. A part of the Career Pack. And that egg is a wasps' nest. The cloud...

Tracker jackers. Adrenaline pumps into my limbs and in three seconds I'm barreling into the forest. Trees fly by; my feet are acting on instinct, taking orders from my subconscious. Five seconds and the rest of my mind catches up. Water. The brook we chased Katniss across yesterday. I don't dare turn my head; if I should lose my balance now it'd mean death. I stumble over the roots hidden in the tall grasses; squirrels dart up trees as I speed past. There was a massive rocky outcrop by the brook; a deep swimming hole underneath. That's where we found her. That's where it's deepest.

I can see the edge of the forest ahead, the rocks in the distance bathed in the fiercest light. I'm sprinting now, I can hear the rush and crash of flowing water. Life or death. I bound into the blinding sunlight and leap from the outcrop into the deepest-looking part of the brook. A splash, and I sink deep into the current. By back rubs against the rough bed of the hole. The water is clear; I can see through to the surface. I must be at least ten feet down. There are only clouds cast against the blue sky, floating like the whipped whites in the blue batter when I helped with the Gallerson's wedding cake. The tracker jackers must not have seen me, or simply lost my scent. With relief, I swim into the sun.

The sounds of cicadas fill the morning air. I've been up barely two minutes. I let the hot air fill my lungs and I realize how hungry I am. It's humid, and the damp of my clothes won't help. I hoist myself onto the rocky shore of the brook and inch my way up the steep slope. My shirt clings to my skin, and although it's cool from being soaked in brook water I start to sweat under the sheen of the heavy black cloth.

As I reach the forest again it's clear my crazed path towards the brook was less than graceful. The silver corridor of beaten-back grass shines dimly in the little sunlight that dapples through the treetops. I need a plan. I left my entire kit at the clearing, although with all the other careers running for cover it's probably gone. They'd be stupid not to grab it, even in a panic. So I'll need to find new supplies, and that could take a couple hours or a couple days, depending on how many other careers are dead or lost. There could still be tracker jackers in the clearing, though the majority of them are probably chasing down whoever's unlucky enough to gain their attention. I wrack my memory for wilderness training... tracker jackers usually swarm to try and find a new hive site after they have eliminated all threats. I weigh on it for a minute, but decide to risk it. There shouldn't be too many of them left in the clearing, and there's probably some kind of sting ointment if I can find the others and make it back to the Cornucopia.

My left foot catches on something. I pull it forward, but whatever's holding it back doesn't give. A wire? It snakes up my shoe and around my ankle, where it tightens. A snare. Goddamn it. I kneel to untie it and see the extra loop. A snare in the shape of a figure eight. Katniss. Oh, Christ, that girl is clever. Of course she'd try and kill as many of us as possible by dropping the nest as we slept.

She tried to kill me. Any other place and time, that thought would ruin me, Katniss trying to take my life. But now I realize she has every justification. I've solidly chosen to remain a Career, partly for my own safety and partly out of fear of her.

Christ, if she ever found out about me and Cato...

I burrow into my pocket for the short paring knife he gave me. What if he's been stung? Or Clove? Or both of them? It'd just be me, who's only good with his fists, Glimmer, who's good at fuck all, the boy from 3, who can rewire mines but is too young to stand a chance-

A blood-curdling scream comes from the forest ahead. A scream I'd only ever heard at the reaping. Adrenaline swirls in my blood once more. I dig my knife into the knot of the snare and pry the wire in two, and bound into the forest. My instincts take over again. I've got to save her. She needs me, Career or not. I leap over logs and pitfalls, following my silver path to the clearing. The trees peel away and I spill into the shade of the massive oak. "Katniss!"

She's writhing on the ground, her braid coming undone and her pant leg in tatters. Has she been stung? "Katniss, what are you doing?" I scream. Why won't she budge? My kit is here, but so are all the other Careers'. If they're smart, they'll be back in no time to grab them. "Katniss, get out of here!" She glances up at me, as though I've got three heads. She's stung and already hallucinating. "You've got to leave! Go, Katniss! Run!"

I can see something in her snap. The clouds in her grey eyes clear away and she understands. "Run!" She stands up, jerkily, but manages to gain her ground. "Go, Katniss!" She gives me a final, piercing glare before she's disappearing into the forest. I can hear her crashing through the grass, although she's out of eyeshot, concealed in the forests' copses. The girl on fire has lost her nimble grace to the jackers' venom. But the crashes get softer and more distant with every new bound.

My first instinct is to run, chase after her and assure she's okay. That would make one time. Or should I simply toss out a loaf of bread halfway to her again, making her crawl through the cold rain to survive? My leg strides forward, but a hand on my shoulder stops me.

"Peeta." A croak of my name, once. "Peeta." Twice. I'm momentarily tempted to bat the hand away and crash into the forest after her, but I know the voice saying my name a third time now. "Peeta, help..."

I turn around and catch Cato just before he loses his balance. His arms hang like a marionette that's lost its strings as they wrap around me limply. His expression is like a little kid's, hurt playing with sticks and stones. "Peeta, I got stung... help me..." He must not have heard me screaming at Katniss to leave. "You c-called me..." He's starting to shiver now; his face is streaming with blood from stings, and he's beet red and sweating. An allergic reaction, coupled with the normal symptoms of tracker jacker venom. "You told me to leave... to run... but I need help..." He's entirely delusional, and it's the only time I've been glad for it. Except he's on death's door.

"Cato, we're going to go back to the camp, alright? There should be some medicine in the supplies." I need to stay in the Careers' good books. Otherwise, I'm screwed to survive this mess. But something else is urging me to take care of him. I swallow hard.

"Am I going to... to die?" His voice is like a child's.

"No, Cato, you're going to be alright." I turn around and hunch his arm over my shoulder. "Lean on me. Can you walk?"

"My legs... they don't want to... I'll make them..." I figured that's as close to yes as I was going to get. It's only then, as I lean down to grab my kit, that I see Glimmer's body. Grey and bloated, like a melting statuette, skin with a sheen like polished stone. Eyes, empty pits.

I don't know what urges me on, but I know I can't let Cato become that. And Christ, of course there's no bow or quiver on Glimmer's body.

Katniss is armed, and we are screwed.

I haul the kit over my free shoulder and lead Cato to my silver path. It's then that Clove barrels out from the obscuring shadows of the forest and nearly collides with us. "Cato! Lover boy!" She catches her breath and pulls back a fallen lock of her black hair. Her hand jitters as it returns to her side; I see only a single sting in her palm. She'll be okay. "Christ, what's happened to him?" She stares, horrified, as she inspects Cato.

"I... need help..." His arm spasms around my shoulders.

I pull him closer and try to explains. "He must be allergic to-"

"-wasp stings, of course. He got stung once at the academy; ran into a nest of jackers during wilderness class." She dips down to pick up her and Marvel's kits. "Marvel's pretty bad, but nothing like this." She gestures to Cato. "I found some ointment in the supply pile. He'll be okay. The rest of us are back at camp." She straightens her hair again and her hands go akimbo. "Can you carry him? Do you even know how to fix him? Will the ointment work?" Her frown turns from frustration to sorrow. She's desperate.

"I've got him." I try to sound as confident as possible. "Listen, I need you to run to the camp and look for anything labeled 'epinephrine' or 'medical adrenaline'. They use it for treating allergic reactions. If it's there it should be in a little hypodermic needle. I have one at home for my shellfish allergy and I know how to use it." The last words I mouth. "Without it, he's probably a goner."

She nods, and tears off through the forest. Five seconds, and she's invisible again. We start to find our way through the grasses and roots. Cato's mostly silent now, but he slithers his arms around my kit and leans on me from behind. His head rests on his shoulder and his legs are able to walk reasonably. We trek, birds caroling overhead. Their world is pristine. It's only a short distance to the camp.

Why does Clove care so much for him? Is it because he's our leader, our common denominator? Is it another story of star-crossed lovers, a tip from their mentors to gain sponsors? Then again, why do I care for him? Because he tied me down and practically raped me? ... no. He's not a rapist. I hate to admit, but it wasn't rape. I swallow my pride. Do I care for him because he turned me against my only other possible ally? My true love? It's all so confusing. I hope she's alright. But she's clever, and wasn't stung as bad as this. There's probably some plant that can suck out the venom that's in the forest by 12. She'll figure something out. I can't help feeling guilty. But tributes can't afford guilt. It hinders survival.

We come to the edge of the forest and to the brook's shore, grey rocks bathing in the hot sunlight. I search for a place to cross, but the humidity clouds my mind with headache. It's unbearably hot. Christ, he'll probably overheat. "Cato, can you let go of my kit and sit down on the rocks awhile?" He says nothing, but I feel his weight come off my back. I sit down as he alights on the rocks, and then falls back, spread-eagled.

"Having trouble... help..." I grab hold of his shirt and tug it as hard as I can over his head. His chest is streaked in lines paper white and beet red, hives everywhere. "Peeta... save me," he pleads. I catch his eyes staring up at me. They're welling with tears. "I'm going to die... aren't I?"

"No, you're going to be fine." I can feel myself shaking on the last word. I reach down and loosen his belt to keep circulation going.

"Can't breathe... need air..." His visage turns a dark maroon. The tears begin to leak out of his eyes. Anaphylactic shock.

Without even thinking, I suck in the deepest breath I've ever held, filling every crevice of my lungs. I hold onto Cato's rough cheeks and wrap my lips around his, and force my breath into his lungs. He exhales, and I expel the breath through my nose and take in another deep draw.

I feel his tongue raking against my teeth. I have to control myself. I know better than this. But he tastes exactly as I remember. I force myself to resist, and I exhale as hard as I can into his lungs. Splashing comes from the brook behind me. "12!" I hear Clove's shrill cry.

Cato's exhalation is stronger this time, and his tongue probes deeper into my mouth. I gesture for Clove to come, swooping wildly with my arm. I hear the splashes quickly come closer and I release the seal between our lips. He faintly whispers as I surface, his bloodshot, brown eyes burrowing into my blue. "I love you."

I know it's the venom talking. He's not a romantic. But as Clove kneels by my side, I reply, even softer. "I know." He breath quickens.

"Is he gonna be alright?" She's panting from the run as she drops the needle into my hand. I break my silent exchange with Cato as she tugs on my shoulder. "He's going into anaphylactic shock; he can barely breathe." I read the needle's label quickly to make sure it's right; any mistake and Cato's done for.

EMERGENCY EPINEPHRINE: For treatment of deadly allergic reactions which may cause difficult breathing, hives, heart palpitations, severe cramps and confusion. Inject into thigh and elevate legs for optimum circulation. If severe symptoms persist after several hours, supplement with diphenhydramine and/or prednisone.

"Listen," I say to Clove. I can see the panic in her eyes, so I stay stoic as I can to calm her down. "Take his shirt to the brook and soak it. We need to cool him down." She nods and grabs the black garb, speeding off to the brook.

As soon as she's out of sight I lean in once more, and give him a final deep breath. The urge flies at me to dive into his mouth, but I bat it away. I surface from his lips. "This is going to hurt for a few seconds, but after that you'll be back to normal." An almost imperceptible nod.

I take my kit off my back and elevate his legs with it. Tearing his belt away, I tug down his pants. He's not wearing any underpants, and I don't have time to process why not before I see his massive erection.

I try to write it off as part of the anaphylaxis, but my mind knows better. I'm flattered. Impressed. I can't control my blush. But then I remember that every second brings him closer to death. I tear off the plastic cap shielding the needle and push it into a vein in his thigh. He yelps in pain, but his body only jerks slightly. I press the plunger as hard as I can. "Peeta! Help..." He moans as the chemical begins to circulate through his body. Almost immediately I can hear his breaths become deeper. Whatever it is, this epinephrine must be stronger than normal. Capitol-made. Of course it is. I pull up and fasten his pants as I hear steps up the slope.

"You're going to be alright, Cato," I assure him, as Clove returns with his shirt and wrings it out over his chest. The water spills over his muscular chest, where the redness begins to fade to pink. She folds the shirt neatly into a rectangle and drapes it over his forehead.

His eyes drill deeply into mine again, never breaking contact. "You saved me." It's a wheeze. I pull off my own shirt, suddenly conscious of my own heat, my skin drenched in sweat.

It's been barely two minutes and already the swelling is starting to recede from Cato's skin. "I can handle him from here, Clove," I say to her. "Head back to camp and tend to the others." She nods, but not without an inquisitive stare. It pierces into my mind. She crosses the brook again and heads for the Cornucopia.

"You saved me," he says again, voice strengthening.

As soon as Clove is out of eyeshot, I lean back toward his face. "What can I say? You protect me, I protect you." He cracks a smile and my mood lightens.

"Baker boy, you're mine." I can tell he's coming back to his senses.

"I know." I put a finger to his jawline. "I'm yours, Cato." I hesitate again. The realization floods through me that the whole of the country is watching. But something gives me the willpower to push through it. "I'd do anything for you."

"Anything?" His hand reaches into my hair and pulls me closer to him. "Anything at all?" His skin has returned to its normal pallor.

"Yes." He moves his head close and our lips touch. He prods his tongue against the entrance to my mouth, and I allow him in. He tastes sweet, and the scent of his sweat fills my nose.

He pulls away to whisper. "Thanks for saving my life, baker boy. How can I repay my little admirer?"

"Coming back to camp and getting better? Sleeping the rest off?"

"Alright." He pecks my lips again. "But let's stay here a little while." He turns onto his side and pulls me flush against him in the shade of the lofty trees.

I open my mouth to refuse, but the warmth of his body makes me reconsider. "If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Of course, I've got you, don't I?"

I snuggle into his side. "It almost makes me wish we'd never have to eventually kill each other."

"It's okay. I treat things I own with care."

And for the next few minutes, we pretend our love happens somewhere else.

A/N: The next story, "Untouchable", has been posted.