A/N: Thank you again, for reading, for reviewing, for your lovely comments. It's a long story – thank you for sticking with it!
I do not own the Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay
I rise before dawn the next morning and begin, the steps ticking effortlessly through my brain from years of practice: measure the ingredients, work the dough, wait for the dough to rise, carefully form the loaves, brush with butter, bake til golden brown. The familiarity is soothing. It's like the comfort of being on solid ground, doing something you don't have to even think about. I make a mental note to suggest something like this to Katniss.
While the loaves bake, I shower. I know it was only one bottle of liquor, but I scrub myself thoroughly to insure there is not even the remotest possibility of smelling like Haymitch.
The loaves are out of the oven, I'm clean. So, what am I waiting for? I take a couple of deep breaths, steady myself, then embark on the extremely short walk to her house. Smoke rises from her chimney, so I can assume she's up. Then the question – do I knock on her door or just walk on in? I choose to knock, making the safer choice. It's Greasy Sae who answers, and I see Katniss curled up on the couch in front of the fire.
Oops. I'm staring again. It's just that when I see her, something's different. Yesterday she was disheveled, her appearance fragile, disorganized. The change is apparent immediately – clean, neat hair in her usual braid, a fresh change of clothes. I wonder what accounts for the transformation, hoping, despite myself, that maybe it has something to do with me. Then I note the redness around her eyes and know not everything has changed.
When she sees me, something shifts over her face as well. Her expression, while I wouldn't quite go so far as to describe it as warm and friendly, is at least interested. Curious. .
We exchange hellos, and then I spot something else different. Curled up next to her is a mangy yellow cat.
"That couldn't possibly be…" I begin.
"Yeah, it's him," she says. "Buttercup, you know, he was…" but she still can't say her name, gets flustered. So, I just nod to show her I understand, that she doesn't have to finish.
Greasy Sae fills in the blanks: Buttercup apparently walked all the way from 13, and he and Katniss have made peace. Remembering what this cat used to be like around Katniss, well, I can't help but smile, because it's just so completely unbelievable. That there could be love and companionship where there once was hate. My spirits rise.
Thanks to Buttercup, the atmosphere in the room has brightened, and I take the bread to the counter, start slicing it. Again, the familiarity brings comfort, although so much has changed. Standing here in her kitchen, slicing bread, making conversation. It's like creating a living memory. We've done this a million times, and yet it's all new at the same time.
We have breakfast, find small things to talk about. Nothing heavy, nothing intense. Except when Katniss mentions her mother. She called her earlier this morning, but isn't able to tell more as her words choke off. I offer words of encouragement, but leave out the hundred or so other words I want to say. The time isn't right, and also we're not alone.
All too soon, it becomes clear that our breakfast is done, visiting hours are over, and I'm to leave. Katniss is starting to look worn out and is withdrawing from us. I take the cue, knowing I can't push anything right now. I don't want to go, but know I have to.
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'll bring bread!" I say, and I turn to go. I wince when I think of how it came out, like I wouldn't want to see her until then. I'm about to add, "but it can be before then if you want," but it sounds lame in my brain, and it's too late now. I turn and give her a half-hearted smile and go home. Despite wishing I was still with her, I can't help feeling that in this relatively short time, some progress has been made. It gives me strength for the rest of my day.
My life falls into something of a pattern. Rising early in the morning, baking bread, breakfast with Katniss and Greasy Sae, sometimes even Haymitch. Just like that first morning, we always keep the conversation light. There are tiny indications that maybe Katniss is losing her wariness of me. She smiles at my attempts at wit, asks me questions, tells me some things about her own life, but keeps her distance from me. Not just a physical distance, but an emotional one too. She is always remembering, I fear, the ways in which I hurt her.
The worst is when we're talking, often about things that are relatively benign, but I'll notice her hands creeping up to the scars on her neck, the scars from when I attacked her. It just gets worse when she becomes aware that she's doing it, because then there's a heavy layer of guilt heaped on all the other stuff. I always thought she'd be able to forgive me, to trust me again, but now I'm not so sure.
About two weeks after my arrival in 12, I stand in my kitchen, looking down into pans full of fallen, lumpy, congealed goo. Bread that for some reason didn't turn out. There's a knock on my door, and I figure it must be Haymitch, so I just call "Come in!"
I keep staring at the ruined dough, until I realize the soft tread has to be hers. I look up, and she says, "You didn't come over this morning. I…we were worried about you." Her eyes dart away from mine.
"Well, I kind of bombed out with the bread this morning," I say, gesturing to the lumpy mess in my bread pans.
She pauses, crinkling her eyebrows, and something almost like a smile plays across her face. "You know, Peeta, you can come over anytime. You don't just have to be bearing bread."
"Oh, okay," I answer, pleasantly surprised.
"I like…I like seeing you," she says, her voice soft and raspy.
This is new. This is hope. I offer to make her tea, gesture to one of my chairs for her to sit in. She was willing to bridge the gap between us, so I decide to do the same.
"You know, you're welcome to come over here any time as well. Day, night, it doesn't matter." I know I'm pushing my luck here a bit, but I go on. "It's nice to have someone here with me, well, you here with me. It's so…..quiet." I'm bumbling, but hopefully I get the message across.
"Yes, quiet," she says, and I realize her house must feel even quieter, because it was a house she shared with others, her family who has left her in one way or another. We sit, drink tea.
Her presence in my house fills the place, warms the cold empty spaces. She's in my house. I'm so wonderfully almost giddy about the fact that she's really in my house! Suddenly I want to tell her everything, show her the painting and the pearl. But, I sense it's still too soon, that it would overwhelm her. But there is one thing I want to tell her; I don't think she knows about it, and I think it'll make her happy.
"Katniss, there's some good news I wanted to tell you. About Annie. She's going to have a baby." I suddenly worry that calling up this association with Finnick may be too much for her, and so I wait, holding my breath.
Silence, as it sinks in. Then,"A baby? The father is…" she starts to ask.
"Yeah, Finnick. Finnick's baby. She's doing a lot better lately. Well, obviously it comes and goes." I pause, but add, "We became friends, back at the hospital."
"Oh, that's….." and she can't find a way to describe it, like she's working it all through her mind.
"It's good, Katniss. It's good for her," I say softly.
She nods, and I see the conflict of emotions in her. Happiness in the new life, sadness in the fact the baby will never know its amazing father.
There's more to say, but neither of us can manage at the moment. So, we just sit in silence, sip the last drops of tea. Finally Katniss says she needs to go. She stands. I stand. She walks to the door. I follow. My arms don't wait for approval from my brain as I reach for her, to hug her goodbye. She doesn't resist, but doesn't fall into my embrace exactly either. It's short, and there's a distance in it.
"You still don't trust me," I murmur, not entirely able to mask the hurt.
She doesn't deny it, takes a moment and then replies, "If it makes you feel any better, I don't trust anyone, including myself."
She leaves, and I worry my impulsive embrace pushed her away instead of bringing her closer. I curse myself as I walk into the kitchen, then spot my ruined bread loaves. I dump them into the trash, slamming the pans against the trash can in frustration, but then I remember something. My dad's words. Said so many times over so many years: "Most days, the bread rises, turns beautifully golden, and fills your belly. Some days, though, it falls flat. You savor the first kind of day, let go of the second."
Finally, I realize he was talking about more than bread.
