Buttercup had become so old in the passing years, and he began to act like it as well. He slept for longer hours during the day, and most of the time didn't even bother to groom himself. Peeta loved Buttercup, and brushed him often, turning his matted fur sleek once more.
Katniss felt something akin to love towards Buttercup, after all those years had passed. The two no longer hated each other; he hadn't had it in him to be nasty since Prim died…and neither did Katniss.
So Katniss and Buttercup got along well together, the orange and red cat sometimes coming to curl up onto her lap or hunker down in the crook of her arms. Since Katniss had become pregnant, Buttercup sometimes leaned his ear down on her stomach, curious as to what he might hear.
Katniss lay in bed, still feeling the waves of morning sickness pass her.
She was supposed to be past the morning sickness by now, but she still felt it all the same. She sometimes blamed herself, thinking that she was the one who had brought this on herself, somehow mentally giving herself the nauseating sickness that kept her in bed for longer hours.
Buttercup hopped silently onto the bed, his legs slowly working beneath him to make him crawl over to Katniss. He lay down a little ways away, bundling up in a tight curled ball. His eyes slid shut immediately, and he was fast asleep once more.
There were a lot of gray and white hairs on him, and the reddish orange color that had once been vivid was now dulled, even despite Peeta's grooming.
Katniss watched the cat with hazy eyes, drooping closed and then slowly sliding open again. Her hands dug into her pillow, and she nested the sheets around her, swaddling them around her until she felt more at ease. More stabilized.
Buttercup didn't even twitch a whisker.
He was so used to both her and Peeta tossing and turning in the middle of the night. That's why he went to sleep somewhere else, mostly. The foot of the bed couldn't even be all that safe anymore, with the random kicks that sometimes came. So instead he slept in chairs, and in closets were blankets and linens were stored, or on the towels that always littered the floor in the bathroom.
Peeta had long since ripped all of the towel hangers off the walls and doors. A fit of rage had consumed him once, a nightmare that had sprung from his sleep and infected his waking mind, causing him to lash out, tear at anything that he could get a grip onto. Nightmares and sleep paralysis was never a good combination, and ever since that day Peeta had sworn never to let that happen again.
He had tried various different methods, ingredients in medicines and teas, and even some dangerous mental games that reminded Katniss too much of hijacking. She had once watched as Peeta was given a small bottle of pills, and in a drugged state was made to relive calm moments and create new ones.
All methods were safe, she had been told, but she kept thinking of how his hijacking had been exactly the same way. Drugs and memories and mind altercations…
Katniss never watched again, and turned a blind eye every time Peeta had to take his pills. She hated it; but whether she hated it for him or whether she hated it because she was her, Katniss would never know.
Peeta had kissed her deeply that night, telling her the medicine would not change him.
Everything was better and different, and there were no mental hijacks. Not since Snow and Coin had died. It was illegal now, but they both knew that illegality didn't stop anything.
But the words were comforting, and Peeta's support like sweet and gentle ice to raw and burning wounds, and she had melded into him, happy to have her support system back.
No, she thought, with twinge of guilt, my supportive partner.
Buttercup let out an audible sigh, giving a rumbling purr with it. Katniss shifted her eyes to look at the sleeping cat, not daring to move her spinning head just yet. He seemed so peaceful sleeping there, curled up in soft sheets and most likely dreaming something nice.
What would a cat even dream about? Katniss wondered to herself.
Catching mice? Wandering around town? Chewing lemongrass?
Maybe he was dreaming about Prim, the sweet and loving girl that had cared for him back those years ago. Who had nursed him and fed him and gave him a warm place to sleep…and her love, she had given Buttercup her love too. And Buttercup remembered her well, Katniss knew by watching his movements.
At random, the compiled instances didn't add up; mournful meows in the night and sad hisses, long dead-eyed stares out the windows or gazed into empty space, a sudden desire to groom himself and then a bitter expression that passed his face, and he fell back into a lounging position before heading off somewhere Katniss didn't know.
She had never imagined she could identify with a cat so much.
But she had; she knew what he felt and what he thought during those moments of memories where Prim was. Sweet Prim, loving and caring and gone forever.
Killed trying to care for the dying.
The image of Coin's body, shot through with an arrow and then tumbling down off a balcony and into a wild crowd, filled Katniss' mind once more. Bitterness filled the back of her throat, and she felt like she was going to vomit.
Moving quickly, enough to actually induce vomiting with the sickness she was feeling, she reached over for the bucket that sat by the side of the bed. Leaning over the pail, she opened her mouth and tried choking up the bile she could feel at the back of her throat. But nothing came out. She tried again once more, coughing up as hard as she could.
A lost battle, she decided, and lowered the bucket down onto the floor once more.
Now that she was sitting up, she might as well get out of bed. She knew she couldn't stay in bed forever, and although it pained her to move and participate in anything of late, she couldn't stay in bed all day. It would drive her crazy, and that was not something she wanted to happen.
Putting her hands to the wall for balance, she walked her way out of her bedroom, leaving the still sleeping Buttercup alone with his dreams and his comfort and everything else that was positive that Katniss wanted.
Bread was always in abundance at her house—their house, as Peeta couldn't give up the bakery. It had been a part of his life for so long, and it was a fairly steady source of income. The bakery was a place he could go and just bake, do nothing more than that soothing routine of his. Kneading bread and heating ovens and watching cakes rise.
And Katniss had to admit, he was a pretty good cook.
Plain bread rolls, freshly baked and still warm, were sitting in a basket, waiting for her to eat them. She plucked a few out of the basket, not caring about rations. That was a worry she didn't need to have any more, and she was hungry. Pulling apart the fresh, steaming bread, she sunk her teeth into the rolls, savoring the delicious flavor.
In a fervor, she downed the first one quickly, swallowing with only a couple bites of the bread. She brought the second one to her mouth, tearing the steaming bread apart once more. The aroma from the rolls made her mouth water, and she sunk her teeth deep into the bread once more, gobbling it just as quickly as the first.
She reached for the third one. Swallowing the still large bites she was taking, she felt the baby kick at her stomach. Hard.
Her hand flew to her stomach, rubbing at the baby bump, trying to soothe the now restless child. Still, she shoveled the bread into her mouth, still trying to satisfy her hunger. She couldn't remember the last time she had eaten, but it had been over twenty-four hours, she mustn't known.
No wonder the baby is kicking, Katniss thought suddenly.
Babies needed constant nutrients, and having a mother that sometimes forgot to eat couldn't be healthy for it. Swallowing again, the bread pushed itself past a hard lump that had formed in the back of her throat from the guilt.
Buttercup silently had crept up on her, sneaking past her and then jumping up next to the breadbasket. He wobbled for a split second, his balance slightly off, before sitting himself down. He still had a sleepiness to him, but his eyes were focused on her.
For some reason.
"You know you're not allowed on the counter," Katniss told him, but made no effort to move him.
She had grown to like his company, and his weird and uncalled-for stares, so she let it slide that he was on the countertops.
Katniss returned his strange stare, trying to figure out why Buttercup had followed her downstairs.
"You're not getting my food," she told him, taking another large bite out of the bread. The baby gave another strong kick, and she stroked at her stomach subconsciously.
Buttercup just stared at her with his large, gray eyes. Unwavering and yet uninterested.
Sighing, she finished the last of her bread, and looked outside. The sky was overcast with dark clouds, threatening to rain down at any instance. Not a good sign for her; she had hoped she could go hunt some, get out of the house a little bit and do something familiar. Rain did have its advantages, like being able to wash away her scent, but the benefits were outweighed by all the disadvantages. Katniss wouldn't be hunting today; she realized that now.
It wasn't like she had her heart set on it anyway.
She still hunting for a pastime, and as another source of income. A good way to put food on the table when Peeta's breads and cakes weren't enough. Now that sugar wasn't as withheld as it had been, he had been baking more of it into the sweet cakes. The flavor made Katniss gag, though, while the frosting, although delicious, felt strange against her tongue.
Peeta had once laughed at the faces she made.
He had made an overly-sweetened, sugary whipped cream once, that he had said made her eyes go was wide as peach seeds.
Buttercup butted his head up against Katniss' arm, bringing her back to the present. She looked down at the grayish-orange cat, a strange pang of warmth reaching into her chest. Hesitantly, her fingers flicked forward, and she rubbed at Buttercup's ear, giving two small scratches before pulling back.
Heading towards the door, she flung her hand out into the open air, waiting to see if it was raining, and it so, how much. Nothing. Not even the smallest drop; not on her hands, and not on the concrete or dirt, for there were no dark spots on either.
Maybe she could still go hunt.
People still bought the game she carried in. It was always the best and most choice meats they could get they're hands on, and many of them had been buying from her for so long. She still went about the town, or to Peeta's bakery, and there she could sell deer and turkey and duck and squirrel. With the Peacekeepers now gone, she didn't have to hide the turkeys from their prying eyes. She could walk through town hoisting her game over her shoulder with her bow and arrows still out in plain sight, and no one did anything except think about their next delicious meal.
It was freedom.
The most freedom she had ever known, ever.
"Now I know you're following me," Katniss said, looking down at her feet.
Buttercup had crept up to her feet, sitting down beside her and looking sourly at the rainy outside world. He could sense that the rain was coming, simply by the ache that he had in his joints. Stretching, then yawning, he squinted his eyes at the clouds, turned to squint at Katniss, then sauntered back into the big house, his slow legs carrying him a little ways away before he plopped down onto the floor, rolling over and going to sleep once more.
Katniss closed the door.
Her back fell up against it, hitting the hard wood with a dull thunk. She moaned, and rubbed at her temples before bringing her hands back down to her stomach. The baby was kicking again, this time strong enough that she could feel it without the aid of her fingertips. This was good, she knew. Good development, as she had been told.
A good, strong baby was what she hoped for.
Without thinking, she walked over and scooped up Buttercup into her arms. At first, the cat hissed at her, out of habit, but didn't make any other moves but that. Katniss cupped Buttercup into her arms like she would a baby, holding him just so. She cradled him up against herself, expecting at any moment for Buttercup to claw at her face or writhe himself free, but nothing. He only stayed in her arms, not doing anything.
"Good Buttercup…" she said, though still waiting for his attack.
Buttercup growled low in his throat, before the sound rose and came out as a strange, gurgling meow. If he hadn't been so old, it might have sounded more threatening, but it came out more tired sounding than anything.
With that, she carried the sleepy cat back up to the bed, deciding to let him sleep in peace.
