The scene in front of her is all too familiar. A blond boy, traipsing through the woods as the sun begins to set. Katniss, not too far behind him, with her fingers itching for her bow and her arrows. It isn't the same as it was the first time. Of courseit isn't the same. She's not in the arena, for one, even though every fiber of her being seems determined to think that she's in direct danger. There's something strange about the sensation, at this point. Something weird about caring whether or not she's in danger.
She's not in danger. Even though her heart is racing and she's keenly aware of every movement the boy in front of her makes as he heads through the woods. Not that it's hard with those footsteps. That was how she found him. He was walking so loudly that she could sense his presence almost as soon as she slipped under the fence. Snapped branches, quiet birds. None of it could be good. It was wrong. All of it was completely wrong. No one ever comes to her woods. Hell, shebarely ever comes to her woods anymore. Only, the house was stifling, and she needed fresh air. That's clearly not what the boy is out here for, though. He's searching for something - someone? No. He's not looking for anyone. She's been following him for ages, now, and he hasn't noticed. He's not a predator of any sort, she doesn't think.
Predator. The word is almost startling, but if she learned anything from the arena, it's to sort potential threats out in her head as soon as she sees them. For her safety – and, to a lesser extent, for the sake of her sanity. And though it's an old habit by now, sorting people as she sees them, predator seems to be a particularly harsh word. Or maybe it really only seem that way because he doesn't seem like a predator in any sense of the word. Not from behind, at least. Those loud footsteps of his are scaring away everything in the area. Except for her.
For some reason, though she knows he isn't a threat, she's not ready to turn her back on him. He couldn't sneak up on you, she thinks, adjusting her bag. Only, she's not positive that she's afraid of him. Or that she shouldbe afraid of him. Of course, fear is an exhausting thing to try and muster up these days. It doesn't seem worth the energy, most of the time, to even bother with worrying.
To test her theory about him not being a threat, she brings her foot down hard on a branch on the ground. It splinters with a satisfying crunch, and she grinds the toe of her boot against it for good measure, breaking it in half. If the boy hears, he doesn't care to find out what the noise is. Maybe that's a good thing. She realizes a moment too late that he could whirl around on her if he heard her, and that she might need to be relieved. He doesn't look like a threat from behind, sure. But he could have a knife clutched in his hand. And then where would she be? And yet, she isn't afraid. Not in general. Not in her woods. She's certainly not afraid of him.
But he isn't prey, either. She burns with shame as soon as the word floats through her mind. Prey. It's the next option, after predator, and yet she feels wrong even applying it to this nameless boy in front of her. It's just, if he isn't a predator, and he isn't prey, then what is he? What is he doing in her woods? And are they still even herwoods, given all the time she's spent without even thinking about them? Maybe they've become his woods. He's not a hunter, but he could easily have a line of snares waiting for him. Or maybe they're his in a way that has nothing to do with game. He's merchant,after all. That much is obvious from his blond hair, even if there isdirt and mud clinging to the ends of it. He's probably never wanted for food enough to risk the woods for it. And yet she's following him. For no clear reason. No reason, other than curiosity. Because she can't figure him out. Just as she's thinking that he's out here for some silly merchant reason – a dare, maybe.
He isn't prey. She's not going to hurt him. Has no reason to – no reason at all. But the only other option is companionand you surely can't have someone you don't know as a companion. But she can't help but to think of walking in these same woods with her father. Of them not speaking, for fear of scaring away what precious little game they could find. This isn't the same. All that thinking of her father serves to do is to threaten to double her over with the pain of losing him all over again.
The boy in front of her distracts her from the numb pain, though, when he finds a patch of berries that she's been carefully avoiding since she first found them. He drops to his knees instantly, fingers working at the vine clumsily. But then he must find purchase, because he looks up at the sky with a shaky little sigh of what must be relief.
Is this suicide?It doesn't seem like it. Can'tbe. He seems too grateful for the berries for him to know what they'll do to him.
So when, in the little shaft of sunlight peeking through the trees, she catches sight of the glint of the berries in the sunlight, she can't stay silent. "Stop!" she barks, mortified at how frantic her voice sounds.
But that doesn't matter so much, because it's enough. The boy hears her and jumps, so frightened that the berries fly out of his hand and into the air, scattering in a way that might be comical if she didn't understand the gravity of the situation. But she does, and her stomach knots as she watches him scramble on his hands and knees to try and retrieve the nightlock. He's more concerned with the berrier than he is with her. Because he doesn't know who you are, she reasons. If he knew he was alone in the woods with a victor, he would run.But he doesn't run. He just chases after his carefully picked food.
"That's nightlock," she continues, leaning against a tree. Trying to sound cavalier even though her heart is racing somehow harder now at the thought of this nameless boy dying right in front of her. "You'd be dead before they hit your stomach." Why are you in the woods if you don't know this? Do you not value your life?"So you might want to leave them alone." That gets his attention, and he stands and turns to look at her. Finally. He looks miserable and though it's hard, in her mind, to reconcile the wordmerchantwith the word hungry, but she's spent plenty of time around hungry people and been hungry herself, and that's what's wrong with this boy. It's plain to see.
He's dirty, too – dirtier than any merchant kid she's ever seen. There are smears of mud across his forehead and his nose, as if he's swiped at his face with one of the dirty hands that he tries to brush off on his corduroys. It doesn't do him much good. Or any good at all. His pants are caked with enough mud to make matters worse.
"I didn't know," the boy breathes. Now that she's looking, it's hard to believe that she didn't recognize him right away. It's obvious,underneath the dirt and the bruise high on his cheekbone that bleeds towards the bridge of his noise, threatening to eclipse the bright blue of his left eye. She's jolted back in time. "Thank you," Peeta Mellark says, and when his voice wavers, he looks away and clears his throat, looking embarrassed. "Thank you, Katniss. I thought – well, it doesn't really matter what I thought they were, does it? It's . . . it's just a good thing you were here. I had no idea."
"You wouldn't have picked them if you knew," she says softly, trying to act as though her gut doesn'ttwist at the idea of happening upon him if hehadeaten the berries. Maybe that's why she followed him, after all. If it was obvious that he didn't know how to keep himself alive out here. Maybe she wasn't acting like a tribute after all. Maybe she was thinking like a mentor. "I only know because . . ." she doesn't finish that sentence. But he must know it's because of her father. Or maybe he thinks that she knows because of her training before the games. Either way, it seems to be enough that she knows. "What are you doing out here?"
Peeta bites his lower lip. "I was looking for food," he admits. "Preferably the kind that wouldn'tkill me. But, hey. Looks like my standards are low this afternoon."
Her mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but she can't come up with a good response for that. Is he actually joking? She half wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Do you not realize that you almost died, boy?!
But then she realizes that if he's desperate enough to risk poisonous berries – and the woods in general – he may stilldie. And she can't let that happen. "Um, here," she says, unzipping her game bag and digging out the pouch that she packed her lunch in. It's not much – an apple she grabbed off of the counter as she left her house this morning, old enough to have gone soft but not rotten – but it's something. "Catch," she warns, tossing the pouch towards him.
His eyes go wide when it smacks against his chest, but his reflexes are fast enough for him to reach up before it can fall. But then, once it's secure in his hands, he just staresat her.
There! There's that natural distrust she's come to expect so much since she's become a victor! This boy has watched her kill – and maybe he's just now remembering that fact. She considers backing away – putting her hands up, maybe, so that he knows that she means him no harm. That he's the only person in the district she can think of that she would mean no harm to, given the chance. But then he clears his throat.
"Really?" he asks. "You don't have to . . ." he begins, his voice wobbling. Then he gives his head a little shake. "Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," she says. Before the words have even left her mouth, he's working to loosen the string holding the bag shut with shaking, unsure fingers. She bites the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to crow at him for finally getting it. There you go, she thinks. That's it.
He glances up at her, and she can see now that it's hesitancein his eyes, not distrust. He's afraid to admit that he wants it, maybe, because he doesn't want the food to be taken away. Maybe not by her, but just in general. How long has it been since you've eaten?"It's yours," she assures him. I won't let anyone take it from you.
In truth, he's practically the only person in this district that she would willingly share food with, at this point. He looks so gratefulwhen he takes that first bite of his apple that her stomach threatens to bottom out. Neither of them speak for a long moment, and she tries not to stare when he licks the juice from his lips. But then he spends a long time examining the apple, and she can tell that he's doing the math in his head. Wondering how he was divide the apple up and make it last. Her heart clenches so tightly that it hurts. He deserves more – needs more – than just an apple.
"Thank you, Katniss," he finally says, voice quiet.
"Come have dinner with me," she says impulsively. "At my house, in the Victor's Village," she continues, even though she feels silly. He knows where you live, stupid.
He hesitates. "Katniss," he begins. "You don't have to . . ." If there's an end to that sentence, she doesn't get to hear it. She swallows hard.
"Do you not want to come?" she asks. What a stupid idea. Now he'll go back to town and tell a story about a day he spent lost in the woods only to be saved by a silly victor who mistook his gratitude for something it didn't mean.
It's not like you're friends, she thinks bitterly, even though that's not quite true and she knows it. Peeta Mellark is the closest thing to a friend that she has had in this whole district. Maybe ever.
He shakes his head, just a little bit too hard. "Yes! I mean, no. I would love to have dinner with you. If . . . if you're sure."
"I am," she says. She's never been more sure of anything in her life than she is about this. This boy needs help. He needs help, and she's the most qualified person in the district to give it.
On the way back towards the district, Peeta walks behind her, rather than in front of her. She knows that he's behind her, of course, because of those loud footsteps of his. But she glances back at him every so often. Maybe not so much to make sure that he's there as it is to make sure that he's okay.
But she doesn't say anything. She's not sure what she wouldsay. But then she hears this strange little huff and whirls around just in time to see him stumbling forward. "Peeta?" she asks, taking a step towards him. He offers her a little tight smile and bends at the waist, finger closing around the stems of a clump of dandelions. "Here," he says softly, pulling them free, and shaking some of the dirt from the roots. "For you."
She can't help herself. She stares for a moment. There's something so strange about it, such a worn down boy presenting her with a fistful of weeds. Something innocent,maybe. Something that tugs at her heart in a strange way, reminding her of her sister, young and blonde and wide eyed, convinced that dandelions were flowers and not weeds. Certainly not food.
"Thank you," she says, her voice quiet. It might give away too much if it got any louder. That's not what she wants. Their fingers brush when she takes the dandelions and he looks away. As if he doesn't want to give away too much, either.
Peeta lets out this nervous little laugh when they reach the Victor's Village. It's such a strange way to break the silence. "What's so funny?" she asks.
"Well. Um, maybe not funny," he says. "But, just . . . it feels like I shouldn't be here."
"Why not?" she asks. "It's safer than the woods." Maybe. She can protect him better out here.
"So, I won't get in trouble if I stick with you," he jokes, reaching up and tugging at his hair. "That's what I'm hearing."
"You won't get in trouble," she assures him. I won't allow it,some protective part of her adds, startling her with the ferocity. "I don't get many peacekeepers out here."
"It's not the Peacekeepers I'm worried about," Peeta says.
Oh. "I won't hurt you," she assures him.
"That's not what I meant." The last remnants of his smile fall from his face and she misses it instantly. Now he really does look like the miserable, broken, starving boy that he is. The bright yellow dandelions feel strange, still clutched in her fist. So out of place in a world that would let things be this bad for someone like him.
"So, anyway," he continues. "I just . . . I was trying to say that I've never been out here before." Peeta looks apologetic. As if he feels guilty for getting off subject.
"No. I get it." The Victor's Village is out of the way – for the privacy and protection of the victors, apparently. Katniss doesn't mind it. She wants nothing to do with anyone in town, really.
At least. Not anyone other than Peeta. But then, she's not sure why it is, exactly, that she's willing to let him into her home. His eyes slide over to one of the empty houses and he sort of shakes his head. "Isn't it lonely, though? I mean - sorry. You don't have to answer that."
Lonely. She fishes her key out of her bag and unlocks the door, turning the word over in her mind. Lonely. Isshe lonely? She hates everyone in the district, usually. And yet, today, she's so intent on inviting a merchant into her home. "No."
"It's not? I wasn't trying to be rude. I'm so sorry. I was just . . . thinking."
He can't imagine being alone in a great big house. I couldn't imagine it, either. Until I had to, she thinks. She moves past him, reaching to shut the door, and he winces. She decides not to lock it. For his sake. Didn't she just tell him that she doesn't get many visitors? Still, it doesn't feel safe, leaving the door unlocked. Maybe it's because she never feels safe. Not really.
There's a blur of orange as Buttercup runs from one room to the kitchen. He must know, then, that he'll be fed soon. Peeta's head whips to the side, clearly curious and maybe a little bit startled at the sudden movement.
"The cat," she explains, pulling her game bag and her jacket off and hanging them on the hooks beside the door. "He's ready to eat."
He nods, looking very serious. As if what she just said is some sort of crucial information.
"Watch your ankles. He might decide he doesn't like you," she adds, hoping that a joke of some sort will lighten the mood. It doesn't seem to work right away, though. She thinks about her escort saying that her people skills were lacking. That feels especially true right now. She has no idea what to say. "Could I get your jacket?"
He hesitates, and then pulls the tattered coat off. There's a gash in the back – just under his shoulder, she thinks. She tries, for his sake, not to stare. Do merchants not know how to mend their own clothes?
"I was going to ask where to put my shoes, but now that I know my feet are in danger, I'm thinking I should leave them on."
This makes her smile. "I just kick 'em into this corner," she says, tugging her foot out of her boot to demonstrate. They gave her a shoe rack, but it's in the closet upstairs, and she thinks that's ridiculous, keeping shoes that far from the door. So she doesn't use it. Of course, there isn't much of this house that she doesuse. Guest bedrooms that might have belonged to Prim, if she had the chance. Bonus roomsshe hasn't even been in.
"You don't have to take them off," she says, even as he kneels down to untie his shoes. "The cat probably won't bother you."
He gives her a small smile. "Well, I don't know how I'd forgive myself if I tracked mud through your house."
That's ridiculous. Her floors are so pristine that sometimes she wants to track mud through them on purpose, just to make this house look lived in. "I'm not concerned about the floors," she assures him. "This house is way too big for me to make messy by myself. Even with Buttercup's help."
He gives her this strange, sad smile when he stands up. "Buttercup? I'm guessing that's the cat?"
She almost laughs. "My sister named him. Thought his fur reminded her of the flower. He's ugly, though. You'll see."
She can't help herself but to stare at the row of hooks for a moment too long. She does look for a moment too long, though, when she realizes that the third hook is finally in use.
"Do you need help?" Peeta asks suddenly, startling her out of her reverie. She can't help but to feel a little bit relieved that he's interrupted her. The last thing she wants is to get choked up. Not now. Not in front of him. "I'm afraid I don't know very much about taking care of game or anything like that. But I'd be happy to help if you wouldn't mind showing me what you need done. I should wash up, though, probably. I wasjust touching - what did you call it?"
"Nightlock," she says.
"Right. It even soundsdeadly," he says. "But I'm happy to do whatever you need done."
"No. That's fine," she says. "I didn't actually get anything new today." I was too busy tracking you. "So no prep work required."
She gives him directions to the nearest bathroom, telling him to take his time and that she'll be in the kitchen. As soon as she hears the door click shut behind him, she gets to work. With a strange burst of inspiration, she pulls a glass down from the cabinet, fills it with water, and drops the dandelions in.
The sun is setting, sinking the kitchen into darkness. She barely notices, though, she's so focused on finding dishes to eat off of. The majority of them seem to be in the dishwasher - or the sink or the counters, for that matter - and if the smell that hits her when she opens the washer that she still hasn't completely learned to use is any indication, it hasn't been run. Maybe in weeks. Months? Years? She finds one of the tablets they gave her and drops it in, turning the dishwasher on. It runs silently, leaving nothing for her to focus on other than how embarrassed she feels. For letting her house be such a mess, maybe. Or for bringing a guest to such a filthy place. Only, what does it matter? Why has it ever mattered whether or not her kitchen looked usable?
Maybe she ought to be angry with him for making her so aware of how dirty she's let her house become – to say nothing of herself. She can't remember when the last time she bathed was. Or even took her hair out of its braid. Or put it up, for that matter. All she can remember now, though it can't be right, is pulling her hair into a braid during the arena.
She can't find bowls, but she can find plates. The next step is the food. There's plenty to do, if she wants to give him the meal that he needs tonight, and she wants as much of it done as possible before he comes out and asks to help again. All of the energy seeps out, though, when she stares into the icebox.
When did it get so empty? It seems like her last trip to the woods - that wasn't derailed by a blond boy and a fistful of poisonous berries - couldn't have been that long ago. Didn't she just lug a too-full game bag home? And end up sitting on the floor, back against the counter when she realized she had no one to feed and no one to trade with?
Or was that the time when she couldn't bring herself to let her arrows fly? When it was horrifying and confusing to think about killing anything? She can't be sure, exactly. Everything bleeds together in her mind. Her days and weeks all shrouded in some sort of a haze.
She finds a can of lamb stew in the cabinet, hidden behind a mostly-empty jar of peanut butter and can't help but to feel triumphant. This - the food that she told Caesar Flickerman was the best thing the Capitol had to offer, more or less - and the bread that was delivered to her front porch just a few days ago, heated up and put on the too-fancy Capitol plates, will make a great meal. The best she's had in - she's not sure how long.
When was the last time she ate? Even now, she doesn't feel hungry. Not really. Just like she shouldfeel hungry.
She finds a small pot to warm the contents of the cans in. If she was alone, she would eat it cold, straight out of the can. Only, that doesn't seem very civilized, and a merchant like Peeta is probably expecting something decent to eat off of. Not to mention the fact that she's a victor. Her house should be pristine. Her pantry and icebox completely stocked with food. Chicken. Turkey. Venison. The best of everything that the butcher and the woods have to offer. And more besides. Potatoes to mash, gravy to make. Fresh, crisp vegetables waiting to be eaten.
Only, her pantry isn't full. She's a victor, and all she has to offer Peeta Mellark is a can of stew.
She listens as Peeta comes through the hall and stumbles into the kitchen. "Oh," he says quietly, and then a little bit more loudly. "Um, Katniss?"
"In here," she answers. He must not have been sure if he was supposed to come in. Right. It's dark. Her eyes have adjusted, for the most part, but his couldn't. Not so quickly.
"It's dark," he notes, and then sort of laughs. "Um. Well, obviously."
"It worked for a while, the light. But it stopped and . . . There are some candles around here somewhere. Just. Stay where you are."
There's no more movement. Good. She doesn't want him tripping over the cat. The matches are in the drawer, where she left them. She finds the candles, next, lighting them and setting one down on the table and the other on the counter. She can barely make him out, but he looks slightly better. His face is clear, other than the bruise. And she thinks his hair is wet. Dripping onto his shoulders. As if he tried to get some of the mud out.
"Um. You can move," she says. He nods, giving her this tiny shy smile. Maybe the most genuine one yet. "Sit down. Dinner is almost ready."
He takes a seat, just beside the head of the table, and she sets the basket from the bakery in front of him. It's the freshest thing in the house - delivered every Tuesday. He probably baked everything in the basket. Muffins and rolls and bread. All of which has been sitting untouched for nearly a week.
"Take whatever you want," she says. "I'll be over in a minute."
Once she's sure the stew is warmed all the way through, she splits it between two bowls and carries it to the table. "Lamb stew," she explains. "It's . . ."
"It's your favorite," he completes, and then gives her the same little laugh he let out when they reached the Victor's Village. "Sorry. Um, you just said so. Before."
Before the games. She nods, reaching forward and taking a roll from the basket. There's something off about it. She's not sure what, exactly, but she doesn't call attention to it.
There's something familiar about the way he eats. How he keeps his eyes fixed on the plate, as if it's going to disappear the second he looks away. How eagerly he scoops up spoonfuls of the stuff. It's almost as if he's never seen food before. Or at least like he can't remember the last time he did.
"It's good, right?" she asks.
He finally looks up at her, eyes wide. "Yes! Sorry. Thank you. Thank you, Katniss. I can't . . ."
She furrows her eyebrows at him. It's like he thinks he's in troublefor not saying it earlier. She tries not to stare, but it's near impossible. Especially when he reaches the bottom of his bowl and tilts it off onto its side, working with his spoon to get the last dregs of it.
Before she's even sure what she's doing, she's nudging her bowl towards him. His head snaps up.
"No. I can't," he says.
"Eat," she insists. "I'm not hungry." Not really. She can't even remember the last time she washungry, and though she did come close to enjoying the few bites she took, it's clear that that was nothing in comparison to the way Peeta was eating it. "Really."
He looks down at it, closes his eyes for a moment, as if considering, and then nods. "Thank you, Katniss. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
She gives him a weak smile. "Eat," she says again.
"I can help with the dishes," he says, and surely has no idea what he's offering. Why is he so eager to make himself useful?"You're a guest, Peeta. You don't have to do anything." She doesn't want to do the dishes. She doesn't want to do anything, getting up from the table included. But then Buttercup yowls, clearly ready for food, and she stands up, picking up his empty bowl and feeling guilty for how long its been sitting there. There's a huge bag of Capitol-grade cat food under the sink. She fills the bowl and sets it out.
Peeta swallows hard. "You've just done so much. Already," he says. "And I don't want you to think - I don't want to seem like I'm not appreciative."
She frowns. "Why would I think that, Peeta?"
He looks down, seeming thoroughly ashamed. Her hands flex at her sides as she resists the urge to brush his hair away from his face. To tilt his head up with a finger or two under his chin until he met her eyes again, so that she could ask him what's the matter and actually get an honest answer. He doesn't seem to be able to both lie andlook at her at the same time.
"You know," he says quietly, and then gives her a dry laugh. "Sorry. I just – I don't know how to say thank you like a normal person, I guess. I don't know how to . . ." he shakes his head, clearly not intending on finishing that thought.
When he stands, she notices that the cut she noticed in his jacket goes through his shirt and his back. It's quite a wound. She wonders how he'll get it cleaned tonight. If he has someone who will make sure it stays dry and sanitary.
There's a pull in her gut that says that no, he doesn't any anyone who will look after his wounds. It's not in a place where he could do it himself, and even if he could, she wonders if he would have what he needed to clean it.
That this is a boy who needs not just her food but her help. He needs to be protected from other things like infections. Blood poisoning. Her stomach twists, and she clears her throat. He's been murmuring something to the cat, but he stops abruptly at the sound. His back is stiff when she risks a glance over at him. He must know what she's about to ask him.
She's not sure if she wants to know the answer, but she asks anyway, forcing the words out so that she can't convince herself that not knowing is better. "Peeta. What were you doing today?"
It's quiet for a long time. He finally clears his throat, though, and she knows that she'll get some sort of an answer. "Looking for food."
She doesn't know how to respond, at first. He was looking for food. Obviously, he was looking for food. "Why?"
"Because – I needed it." The cat rubs up against him impatiently, food forgotten for the moment. Good. He must not have been too hungry, then. She hates imagining her sister's disapproval when she forgets to feed the stupid thing.
She sucks in a deep breath, half expecting to push things too far and not get an answer. So she softens her words by getting to work on finding the soap for the dishwasher before she says another word. The silence in the room is thick and heavy, and probably not at all better than the awkwardness that would come with more conversation. "Why?" she asks again, and then clears her throat. "Why did you need food, Peeta? Please don't say because you were hungry."
He lets out a shaky breath but doesn't answer. By telling him what not to say, she must have taken away his only response.
"Why are you hungry? Why didn't you eat at the bakery? Or . . . at your house?"
He clears his throat. "That's not exactly an option."
Oh. "Where are you staying?" she asks. He's too old for the Community Home. She knows that much. And she wouldn't have found him in the woods if he had been staying there, anyway. That's not even to mention that if another merchant family took him in, he would have plenty to eat and not have risked the woods.
"Katniss," he pleads. She hears the words he doesn't say just as clearly. Don't make me do this.
She swallows hard and presses again.
"Where have you been staying?"
"Nowhere. Everywhere. Take your pick," he says. and his voice is casual. Even and practiced and just barely sounding like his own. She can't help but to think of Finnick Odair, who rarely ever sounds the same, he alternates between joking and flirting and whispering so often.
"So, when you said you wanted somewhere to wash up . . . you didn't just mean to wash your hands," she says.
"What you gave me was more than enough," he insists.
"You should take a shower," she decides.
His mouth opens and closes a few times. She thinks that he's trying to come up with a good reason why he shouldn't.
"At least so I can wash your clothes."
"I don't think I'd be in there thatlong," he says with a little smile. One of the fake ones, she decides.
"I can give you something to wear," she says. "I'll leave it outside the door and come back downstairs and put it in the wash. I might even have some thread around here, if you want to try and do something about that hole."
He flushes. As if a torn shirt is something to be embarrassed about.
She's not sure what she'll do if he says no. Not sure how she'll manage if it turns out that she can't take care of him. But in all honesty, that's what she should be doing with this great big Capitol house. With these showers and all the food that's always in her kitchen. Maybe that's why she has it. For Peeta Mellark. To share it with him.
"I'll show you the shower," she says, turning and heading for the stairs before he has the chance to protest. He follows after her - maybe not willing to be left alone in her great big house. "Leave your clothes in the hallway when I'm gone. I'll switch them out for something clean."
She doesn't look back at him to make sure that he nods. She'll know, if she comes by and the clothes aren't out there, that he wasn't listening. But she doesn't believe that he would follow without listening.
He hangs back in the doorway. She can feel his eyes on her while she picks the biggest, softest towel from the closet and hangs it to warm under the air vent. His foot taps out an irregular beat. She gets the water going for him, remembering how long it took for her to figure it out.
"I'll be, ah, down the hall," she assures him. He gives her a little nod.
She goes into one of the spare rooms and finds the box of clothing that she hasn't looked through since she got home. It's been sitting, sealed up and hidden away, for nearly four years, now. It was the only thing waiting for her in her new house in the Victor's Village when she got back from the games.
Her parents' things. Mostly, her father's clothing. There are a few things that once belonged to her sister, but those are much more rare. She remembers looking through the box for the first time. Remembers shuddering when she found the old tattered blanket from all those years ago and giving up on the rest of the box, because she couldn't handleit. The blanket has stayed on her bed, wedged beneath the top sheet that still feels too foreign against her skin on particularly bad nights. When she remembers just how she earnedthe luxury of the bed that she attempts sleeping in.
She holds a fist to her mouth, trying to stifle the strange, choking noises that threaten to come out. Because then Peeta might hear her and that's not good at all. She stares up at the ceiling and forces herself to try and get it together, if not for her sake then for her guest's sake. He needs something to change into, and she hasthat. So she picks up the most unassuming articles of clothing that one belonged to her father. Ones that she barely even remembers him wearing. A worn pair of pants - mended and mended over and over again, to the point where she's not positive any of the fabric is the original - and a greyish blue thermal shirt, creased down the middle from how long it's been sitting. The water is running when she passes the door, but she knocks three times, anyway.
"Clothes are in the hall," she informs him, hating the way that her voice wavers.
The outfit doesn't fit him exactly right. He looks more than a little bit uncomfortable when he surfaces, stopping on the bottom step and watching her carefully. The shirt is a little bit too big, the sleeves coming down over his hands. Or maybe he's pulled them down so he can hide inside of the shirt a little bit better.
He opens his mouth but doesn't say anything. He settles for biting his bottom lip so hard that it must hurt, instead.
"Are you feeling better?" she asks, aiming for casual, but there's still a hint of apprehension in her voice. He can't be feeling too much better, if the way he's looking around is any indication.
"I can't accept this," he says suddenly, and then winces, as if startled by his own voice. "I just . . . I mean, this – all of it – is too much. And . . . I have nothing to offer."
That's not true. She looks him up and down and he shifts uncomfortably.
"Really," he affirms. "Nothing. I'll probably stain these clothes within, like, five seconds of getting off these stairs. And, um . . ."
She's staring at his feet. Socks. She forgot to give him socks. He keeps talking, but all she can focus on is how cold his feet must be in this house.
"So, anyway," he continues. "Do you have - do you have my old clothes? Well, myclothes?"
"They're in the wash," she lies. They're not in the wash yet. They're sitting on top of the wash, because she was going to look for some thread, but he came downstairs before she could. "Soaking wet. You wouldn't want to put them on now."
"Katniss," he pleads, his voice the same as it was just after dinner.
"I have extra bedrooms," she says, finally meeting his eyes. "There's something. If you want - if you want to offer me something, in exchange for room and board."
He swallows hard. "Me?" he asks, clearly disbelieving. "There's something . . . something Icould offer you?"
"Yes."
"What's . . . um, what do you want from me?" he asks. He's not a small boy - granted, he's thinner than is probably healthy now, and his shoulders are hunched, but it's strange to see someone who is usually so stronglook so small. So defenseless.
"You can stay here, with me," she says. "And you can be my baker."
His mouth drops open and snaps back shut. She watches him as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Your baker?" he repeats.
"My baker. You'll live here. I'll give you your own room upstairs. Food and clothes. And in return, you can bake for me. Just, um, breads and things. Like I've been - like what was in the basket," she says.
Something like a smile creeps onto his face. "Katniss. Really?"
"It would be cheaper than all of those damn deliveries I'm paying for, anyway. You don't have to answer tonight," she assures him. "But stay here. Think about it. You can tell me in the morning."
"I can - I can tell you now!" he says hastily. "Yes. Yes. Thank you, Katniss. Thank you."
Notes:I cannot ever thank either of the ladies who helped me to plan this story enough, but I will try. So much love to Gentlemama, who, as usual, helped so much in the formative stages of this story with planning, handholding, and betaing that this fic would be a huge mess without her. And to Greenwool, who has put up with endless questioning during the drafting of this first chapter and helped endlessly with characterization, planning, and yet more handholding. (Because I am ridiculously needy!)
HEA is guaranteed. Not only have I been made to promise as much, I love these two to much to leave them with anything else. I can't promise a smooth trip there, but if all goes as planned? It doesn't get much heavier than this. So, trust me on this one. I'm good for it :)