I do not own The Hunger Games.
Marcus Aurelius's POV
Sometime later, the President is lying on the floor of the library with her shoes off, her shirt un-tucked, and her eyes closed. She is laughing and mumbling, "You're the head, head-doctor" over and over, like it's the funniest thing she has ever heard. Her laugh is so melodic and unexpected, and her face is so lit up with laughter that I can't help but laugh with her. The remains of our dinner sit on the desk and I have given up all pretense of taking sips of my drink. I hope she is oblivious to the fact that only one of us is inebriated.
I tell myself that I am here because of professional interest in Peeta: there is some of that, for sure. If I am honest with myself, I am also intrigued at the president who grabbed my hand and would not let go on the way to the mansion, or who is haunted by Peeta's reaction to the painting of interrupts my reverie, "What do you like best about the Capitol?" She slurs.
I answer without thinking, "The food."
She chortles. "I know. The stuff Peeta bakes is amazing. I'm sure I'll get fat if I'm not careful. Good thing I have our late-night workouts." She pats her stomach and then chortles harder. I understand her reference, but immediately and guiltily think back on my fantasy from this afternoon. If she even suspected…"What's your favorite?"
It takes me a few seconds to realize that she is asking about food again. "All of it. The food in 13 was always very…utilitarian. We did not care so much about taste as nutrition."
She gives an exaggerated shudder that makes me laugh. "Utilitarian is right: that fish stew still gives me nightmares." She rolls onto her stomach and squints her eyes. "You don't like sweets?"
"What?" It is with some difficulty that I avoid looking down her shirt. She makes it more difficult because she seems to want eye contact. Don't look down, don't look down…
"Sweets: cookies and cakes and strawberries dipped in chocolate and oranges and blueberries and honey in warm milk with spices" she sighs longingly, "You haven't eaten them since we came to the Capitol."
"I love them." I confess. They are a secret vice discovered upon my advent to the Capitol. There is not much harm in telling her about my secret love of sweets, since I doubt she will remember what we discuss tonight. I try not to eat them because I have a fear that I will not be able to stop myself – in much the same way that I cannot help but sneak peeks at the smooth skin revealed by Paylor's position. Luckily, she resumes her position on her back.
You know what I loved about the Games?" I cannot imagine Paylor liking anything about the Games.
"No, what did you love about the Games?" I smile, glad the president who confesses her likes and dislikes and rolls around on the floor like a young girl cannot see my expression.
"The horses. You know, the horses pulling the chariots during the tribute parade? They were so beautiful and majestic. We didn't have any animals in 8, not really. I always wanted to see them if I made it to the Capitol. I haven't even had a chance to make that happen." She sighs unhappily, pouting slightly.
I laugh. It's a ridiculous mental picture, Paylor in her ugly blue suit, petting a horse.
"What about you? What did you like about the Games?"
I think for a minute. The Games were not mandatory viewing except for the soldiers and children of 13: Alma Coin wanted to make sure those groups had a healthy hatred for the Capitol. The rest of the workers, like me, weren't required to watch it. Alma frowned on intense emotion, so it was better if we just concentrated on our own roles within the community. I think back to the brief times I watched the Games, back when I was training as a soldier and my aptitude for science had not yet been discovered. It was at least ten or fifteen years ago.
"I enjoyed watching the crowds and the variety of people. They were so different than anything in 13." I finally answer.
"Would you go back to 13 if you could? Back to before the rebellion and do things differently?" I think about my answer: about the loneliness in 13, the bad food, the controlling presence of Alma Coin. The schedules and giving affection only to lab mice because those were the only pets allowed and even they were killed in the name of science. Of course, I didn't know enough to dislike those things outright before the rebellion. I had not known enough to want more. I realize that being around the new president makes me want more.
"No. I am doing good work here. This is exactly where I am supposed to be. I can make a difference if I am smart enough." I say gruffly. I hope she is too drunk to realize that I mean right here in this room with her.
Her breathing becomes more even and I think she is asleep when I hear her say quietly, "Peeta has so much potential." It is a statement more than a question.
"Yes." Even damaged, the boy who is still lying on the bathroom floor has enough compassion to help two districts find solutions to their problems. I think back to his memory of giving Katniss bread when they were younger. He truly is the boy with the bread for us all.
"Can you imagine…what he was… before?" I am not sure if she means before the Games or before his abduction. She might even mean before Katniss. I myself have put some thought into all three as I try to piece together the jagged pieces of Peeta that are left. The parts that are damaged or missing give me indications of the person he was formerly.
"Yes. I am sure he was magnificent." I have not put that thought into words before tonight. That is another first for the doctor.
Paylor sighs and half-mumbles, "Everyone should have a love like that." Despite barely hearing them, I feel the jolt of those words through my entire body, so closely do they echo my sentiment from earlier today. Paylor is oblivious to the resonance I feel to her words and keeps slurring, "I'm sorry I gave you that key. I thought it would help. Some doors ought to remain locked. Some things can't be undone."
"I don't know how to reach him, sometimes." I find myself sharing even more of my own private doubts.
She makes a noise that sounds like agreement or understanding or perhaps is a snore. Her breathing becomes more even and I realize she is actually asleep. I gather our glasses together and put them with our dinner things. I wonder if I should wake her and escort her to her room, then I realize that the entire point of the night was for her to stand vigil over Peeta. She needs to feel like she had paid back the debt that she owed him for showing him that painting and setting back his recovery.
I look back at the video screen. Peeta is up and talking to someone on the telephone. He appears lucid and thankfully unscathed from the day. I should wake her. I think this, but know I won't. I've enjoyed the intimacy of the night too much to for it to end abruptly with a shoulder shake and a goodbye.
I manage to scoop Paylor into my arms so I can put her on the couch and make her more comfortable. Just as I am ready to put her on the couch, she turns her head into my shoulder and nuzzles comfortably into my neck. I freeze with her lips resting against the skin of my throat. I close my eyes and count to ten, feeling the feverish heat of my skin, wondering if she can feel it as well.
I place her gently on the couch, loathe to break the contact but unable to conjure an excuse to hold her all night. Imagine her face in the morning! I chuckle quietly. I cover her with a throw. Unable to resist one more touch, I smooth her hair back from her forehead and trace down her jaw. I lean close to her cheek and whisper, "Goodnight, President Paylor."
She turns her head into my hand and mumbles, "Brinna." Our faces are so very close that I can feel her breath on my lips.
I smile at her, though she cannot see it. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Brinna. I'm Marus."
Brinna Palor's POV
I awaken on the coach with nothing but the video of Peeta's empty room to keep me company. Peeta's room is empty. That must be a positive sign, right? I hope the absence of both Peeta and Dr. Aurelius does not indicate something negative. Sitting up takes tremendous effort, but showering clears my thoughts and brings me back to some degree of normalcy.
Despite feeling somewhat more human than when I had awakened, my head is throbbing. It feels as if someone is trying to rebuild a Capitol city block behind my eyelids and my stomach is staging a small rebellion of its own. The recently arrived tea tray does nothing to quell the nausea. Frankly, I feel like death. I put my head down on the cool surface of the desk, silently thankful for the quiet in the room.
I hear the door open but do not expend the energy required to lift my head. "This had better be urgent." I have growl, half whine. I see of two pills move into my field of vision, placed gently on the desk. I hear something being poured into a glass and it is also gently placed on the desk. Headache pills, I think. "I can't take those…I'm dying." I groan.
"Please don't do that: I am not that kind of doctor." I hear his quiet, wry laughter. Did Dr. Aurelius just make a joke?
I gingerly sit upright to meet his eyes and he gently slides the glass closer to me. The noise echoes in my head like a train pulling into a station. I wince.
"Take the pills; your head feel better afterward." I dutifully take the pills and drink some water. "I came by to check on you and let you know that Peeta seems to be recovered." He is smiling at me.
Smiling? Joking? Where is Dr. Aurelius and what have you done to him? I quip to myself. He looks remarkably well rested. As I think about it, I notice that he looks remarkably unaffected by the effects of alcohol. Oh no. Did I make a spectacle of myself? What if Dr. Aurelius watched me make a total fool of myself last night?
I only remember bits and pieces of the evening. I remember throwing back drinks as I explained what had transpired. I remember ordering a dinner tray and the two of us eating. Events after that get fairly hazy. I seem to recall lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling for an indeterminate length of time. I also have the incongruous recollection of being wrapped in warmth and skin to skin contact. I hope that last image is a dream because Dr. Aurelius is the last person I want to offend with unrequited drunken skin to skin contact. I groan mentally at the possibility.
I clear my throat, "I apologize again for what happened yesterday and for last night. I hope I did not do anything inappropriate." I am not sure that my stomach could handle confirmation that I launched myself at the doctor.
He turns slightly away from me. "There is no need to apologize. You were the embodiment of presidential decorum." I wish I could believe him, but he is still smiling that private little smile and is studiously avoiding meeting my eyes. I am getting ready to push the issue and ask what actually happened last night when he looks at his watch. "I must be getting to my first appointment. You are obviously recovering nicely. Will I see you later in the Training Center?" His blue-green eyes finally meet mine guilelessly.
My eyes narrow slightly because I know there is something he is not telling me. I vow that I am going to get to the truth of what happened last night, even if part of me is no sure I want to know. A snippet of memory comes back to me…some doors are meant to stay locked…A name pops into my head and I know how to throw him off balance.
"Of course. I wouldn't miss it…Marus."
He walks out the door and I know the name registers when the smile flickers slightly, and then disappears.
