A/N: We're officially over a hundred reviews! The lovely LvR93 is even making fan art for this story, which is flattering beyond belief. The Cato chapter is coming after this one, and then the bonus, which, according to popular demand so far, is looking like a Haymitch one. Which scene do you want? Any strong feelings?
I'm going to be answering review questions and more at the end of the chapter, so stick around. Long chapter today. Enjoy!
I slam my fist into the door once or twice, then give up and go back into the living room. "Cato?" I say hesitantly. "Are you awake?"
"Yeah…" he sighs, dragging the word out. "What'd he say about me?"
If I'm going to trust him, then I'm starting now. And I'm going to trust him. I have to trust someone, sometime, and for some reason, I've chosen him. So I say truthfully, "He said I should keep you close." I sit on the couch but don't touch him.
"Don't screw with me," he says wearily, turning his head to look at me. "Really."
"Really. And he said we should get to know each other."
"Yeah," Cato says unhappily, tightening his lips. "We should."
"You don't want to?"
"Not because I think I'm going to have to kill you or anything," he says, echoing what I was thinking. I'm suddenly very uncomfortable. "But I'm not… I'm not someone you want to get to know," he finally mumbles.
"And that means?" I move a little closer to him.
"It means don't. There's nothing to get to know," he shakes his head, holding his hand close to his chest.
"That's not true," I say obstinately. "And you know it."
"You think that?" he frowns at me. "Really? You're trying really hard to justify saving my ass. That's what I think."
From the kitchen, out of sight, I think I hear Haymitch snort.
"No, that's not it," I say, annoyed. "And I do really think that. If you were just a killer, you wouldn't have agreed to win together. Nothing I said could've convinced you."
He has no answer for this, so he just sits there, looking at the ceiling, and I sit there, looking at him. "Really?" he says at last. "You think that?"
"Absolutely I do," I say quietly, scaring myself.
Cato doesn't talk for a long time again, and then he just puts his hand on my leg, patting it in a kind of spaced out way. "You're so…"
"Yeah. You too," I say sarcastically.
"So no sleep," he sighs. "For how long?"
"A few hours," Haymitch says, walking into the room with a vial of liquid. He hands it to Cato. "Drink this," he orders.
Cato downs it without argument. Considering that he accused me of poisoning him at one point, I'm pretty sure this means something, but I don't know what. "Oh," he coughs after swallowing. "This is the good stuff."
"Yep. Should wear off by nightfall. Can you stay awake until then?" Haymitch asks, leaning on the back of the couch between Cato and me.
"Sure," Cato sighs. "Didn't survive the games to die from getting shot in the hand." He cuts off the first syllable of my apology. "I'm not going to actually die. Don't feel bad about it for anything. I'll be fine."
Haymitch raises his eyebrows at me, and I glare at him, but he ignores that. "Good to hear," he says to Cato, slapping his shoulder, then gets up and walks away.
"Wait, did he just…" Cato points over his shoulder at where Haymitch went. "So are we cool now?" he finally says.
"I'm not sure. Maybe." I shrug. "Hey. Hey, sit up." He does, even making the effort to hold his head up. "You need to stay awake. What do you want me to do?"
"I don't care," he shakes his head. We sit there in silence together for a second. "We should probably talk. Get to know each other or whatever," he says.
"Do you really want to?" I frown suspiciously.
"No. But you do. And you probably need it, right, so you don't think I'm still secretly a monster or something," he says casually.
"Is this you admitting you're not a monster?" I ask. There's a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that I'm not sure what it is; either I'm apprehensive or I'm excited. They feel remarkably the same to me most of the time.
Cato doesn't answer for a second, face twitching into a variety of expressions. Then he says, "No. But it's not a secret. Or it shouldn't be. If we're gong to be working together, acting like friends or something." He holds his hurt hand to his chest and holds tight to that wrist with his other hand. "I mean… right?" he checks.
"Yeah, I mean… yeah. I'm not perfect either, though. I'm terrible at talking to people."
"That is true," he nods, smiling. "But that's different than killing people."
"No, I killed people, too. You've seen the tapes, haven't you? I think I killed the most besides you or Thresh."
He frowns. "Thresh?"
"District eleven." Of course he wouldn't know his name.
"Oh. Well, yeah, but you didn't… you didn't want to. You didn't choose to."
"You did?" I challenge.
He looks down, refusing to meet my eyes.
"Tell me. Did you choose to be a career?" I say, leaving no room for argument.
Maybe it's the blood loss, the drugs, or maybe it's that he actually wants to trust me, but he does answer, with quiet solemnity that can only mean he's telling the truth. "My parents gave me up for training as a kid so the other kids would be okay. You get tesserae for putting your kids in training."
"Yeah, so that wasn't your choice," I say slowly. "Right?"
"Not at first. But I didn't fight it. I liked being a tribute," he says in a low voice. He sounds so ashamed of himself that I almost want to hold him tightly and comfort him, but I don't.
"That doesn't… that sounds like they brainwashed you. Did you even know there was another choice?" I ask.
"Not good ones. It was always the most important thing you could do. The kids who didn't go into training were weak. Or that's what everybody said." He thinks, and then shrugs dismissively. "I don't know. I'm not sure about anything. I mean, they told us that everybody from the other districts was meant to die. But it seems like maybe it's the opposite."
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd ever be helping a career talk out his childhood issues. Yet here I am, doing exactly that, and out of my own free will, actually feeling bad for him, wanting to know more. "What do you mean?" I ask, biting my lip.
"Well, you. You have a life outside of this. I don't; this was all I had. It was win or die. And without you being all nice or whatever, it definitely would've been die. So thanks," he says reluctantly, looking at me in a way that doesn't seem very grateful.
"You're welcome," I say, crinkling up my nose.
He sees my expression and smiles tightly. "No, I am… I meant that. But it's made everything harder. Because now I have to think about this shit, and get shot in the hand," he adds, trying not to smile.
"Are you ever going to leave me alone about that?" I demand, trying not to smile back. "I mean, not that I don't deserve anything you say."
He actually smiles. "I'll stop if you're mad."
"I'm not mad, it's fine," I shake my head.
His smile gets bigger, slightly goofy. "The drugs are kicking in," he informs me.
Slowly, he begins sliding down off the couch onto the floor. I watch this, amused despite myself, until he's sitting on the ground completely, his legs under the table. "You okay?" I ask, getting down on the floor myself. There's not a lot of room between the couch and the table, so I end up kind of close to him.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Well, I'm not fine at all, but I'm okay. I'll be okay." He puts his hand on top of mine clumsily. "You didn't do anything wrong. But I did. I've done everything wrong."
"Not everything," is all the comfort I can manage. "You made the right choice in the end."
"What, saving you?"
"Yeah."
"Great. One semi-good thing to balance out everything else terrible I've done in my life," he sighs deeply. "That doesn't make me a good person."
"And why does that matter to you?" I finally ask what's really been on my mind.
He actually tries to answer, but the morphling seems to be doing something to him. "I don't know, but it does. And it matters to Clove," he adds, pointing across the room.
"Are you hallucinating?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.
"Yeah," he nods happily. "Don't you see her? She's right over there." He points again, to somewhere else. "She should've won. She played the game perfect."
I decide to humor him. "Clove. She played the game?"
"Yeah. But in a weird way. I don't think she wanted to win. Not that she'd ever admit it," he says with a hint of a smile. "Right?" he says to the wall.
"What do you mean?" Despite myself, I'm a little curious.
"She didn't want me to know. We just talked about winning and strategies, but I knew something was weird." He's silent for a second, then says, "I actually think she was trying to help you."
"What? No, she almost killed me like, six different times," I snort. It must be the drugs making him say this.
"But she never did. I mean, she knew I was bad at climbing or whatever and she's like a squirrel, but she had me go up there. I don't know. I'm probably wrong," he shrugs in a really weird way that's completely loopy.
"No, it's fine. I'm doing the same thing with Peeta, trying to convince myself that he'd be okay with this, somehow. Maybe. He wasn't a killer, I mean he'd probably understand." He gave me whatever I wanted, whenever he could. He probably would've given me this.
"He was a nice guy?" he asks.
"The nicest. The world didn't deserve him," I say, biting on my lip as hard as possible so I don't start crying. This part of today is all about him.
Cato nods like he understands. "People like that don't ever win the games," he says conspiratorially.
"Well, that sucks. And I hate it. He shouldn't have been here. He shouldn't have gotten mixed up with me. I'm… terrible."
"You survived," he points out. "And you got me out, too. That's more than anyone's done in the history of ever. You're good. I'm terrible. I couldn't stop Clove from dying."
"Wouldn't that make us equally terrible?" I point out.
He stares at me blankly for a second. "Oh. Yeah. That's true. But no, that's not true," he immediately corrects himself. "You didn't… you didn't kill the only person who talked to you about anything other than the games. Training for the games. Winning the games," he says, sounding very exasperated about the whole situation.
"Clove?" I ask.
"Yep," he nods, popping the P. "Yep. We trained together, all the time. All. The. Time," he repeats with extra seriousness, staring into my eyes. "Like fourteen hours a day sometimes. We did a lot of training. Didn't we?" he asks the TV. "We did."
"What was she like?" I ask curiously. "When she wasn't trying to kill me. Or not trying to kill me," I amend my statement when he gives me a look. "She might not have been trying to kill me. All the time."
"She was… she was nice. She was like you," he says, innocently kind. "She was… lethal, and scary sometimes, and nice. She didn't think I was terrible. Like you don't. Except maybe she had a reason sometimes."
"A reason? What, were you actually nice?" I tease.
Cato snorts. "No. Nope, no. Never. I'm not nice," he says stubbornly. He pushes the table away with his feet, struggling for a few minutes before actually making it happen. "But don't talk about me anymore. Don't. Anything else I say you'll hate."
"No, I won't," I promise.
"How about later. When I'm not tripping on morphling. I know how this stuff works," he says, pointing sternly at me. Then his finger swings around to his other side. "Don't laugh at me," he orders the air.
"Nobody's there."
"Nobody's where?" he asks. I can't bring myself to answer that, so he speaks again. "So what about you?"
"Well, um maybe we shouldn't talk about me while you won't remember things. So I don't have to repeat myself later," I say hastily. "So…"
"No, no I'll remember," he says earnestly. "I've had this before. I know how it works. I'll remember everything, even if I do some really stupid things. Sorry if I do stupid things."
"It's fine. I've been really stupid, too." I sigh.
He looks at me pensively and says, "You don't have to look at me. When you say things."
For some reason, I smile at this. He makes me smile a lot for someone so serious. "Okay. Okay, fine," I say. "I'll say things. What do you want me to say?"
"I dunno. Things," he suggests after a second of thought.
I roll my eyes. "Nice. Okay. Things. I like green."
"The food? Cuz we could go get some for you."
"You can't walk. No," I say positively, not bothering to point out green isn't a food. "And I meant the color, anyways."
"What? What does that look like? Oh. But that's not what I meant."
"That was a fun conversation with yourself…" I say, half-smiling. "So are you ready to talk to me now?"
He smiles at me sweetly, innocently. "Sure. Whadduya wanna talk about?"
"I don't know. I'm not good at this. Don't you remember?"
"Okay, okay okay. Okay," he finishes seriously. "I'll think of something for you. Okay."
"Alright." I wait for him to choose something to say, and I've got that feeling in my stomach again, that thing somewhere between excited and apprehensive.
"What does Seam mean?" he asks abruptly.
I accidentally laugh. "What?" I want to make sure I heard him correctly.
"You keep using that word. All the time. And your mentor does, too. What does it mean?"
"It means…" I sigh, trying to think of how I can explain this to a career from District 2 who's never been deep in the real woods, miles from everybody else in the world. I'm not even sure he knows what coal is. "It means a lot of things," I say, just to say something.
"Like what?" he prompts.
I turn away from him, hoping that maybe that'll make it easier to explain. "Um, well, twelve is the coal district. It's really small. Some people live in town, but a lot more live near the mines. And people from around there are called Seam." Somehow, I don't think that's a very good explanation, but it's a good start.
"So it's where you live?" he asks, remarkably coherent.
"No… it's more like how you live, too. Starving, and kind of illegal sometimes. And we look out for each other," I add, thinking of Gale, but not for too long, because then I'll start to miss him so much it hurts, even though I know I'll see him in a few days.
"So… can somebody move there and be Seam?"
I am officially doing a terrible job of describing this. "No. You have to be from there. And look like you're from there."
"And what does that look like?"
"Me." That's the simplest way to explain it.
"So… darkish colored?" he asks.
I laugh once. "Yeah. That's it. All of those things combined."
"Oh."
"So are you glad you now know this completely useless piece of information?" I say, joking with him just a little bit.
"Yes. So we're saying 'so' a lot," he observes cheerfully.
"Yeah, we are," I agree after a second. "That is true." Hesitantly, I lean back on his side and shoulder. "Is that really the only question you have for me?"
"No. I have about a zillion other questions, but they're all stupid."
"Well, let me hear some of them. So you stay awake." And also because I may be genuinely curious about what he wants to know. When he's not completely aware, his default is to be honest with me. That's a good sign, right?
"Where'd you learn to be so lethal? Twelve's kids are usually worthless. Sorry." He moves his arm so it's resting on the couch next to me, and I settle more comfortably into his side.
"It's fine. It's true, anyways. My dad taught me to shoot so our family wouldn't starve." That's the super-short version – the only version I want to share.
"He just… taught you? I mean, you obviously have natural talent, or you'd never be so good," he says honestly. "I don't have any talents."
"Yeah, you do, you're-"
Cato cuts me off. "No, I don't. I'm strong. But anyone would be if they trained to be. It's not a talent. It's a skill. I have a lot of those. But not any talents." After a brief pause, he announces. "Wow. I'm kind of being a dork here."
"It's fine. You're evening things out between us – I've done enough stupid things for years."
He sort of giggles and doesn't deny it. "And you sing, too?"
"Yes," I say very uncomfortably. "But I will not sing for you."
"Why?"
"Because I don't sing for anyone."
"You sang for Rue."
I twist around to look at him. "And how the hell do you know that?" I demand. Suddenly, I realize anew how completely vulnerable I am right now, how stupid I'm being from a logical viewpoint, and I'm almost scared.
"I watched everything you did on the tapes. Know your enemy, right?"
"Right," I say, disappointed.
"But you're not my enemy. And also I could hear you singing to her when you did it. I was by where you were," he says, like that's not a big deal.
"You heard me singing to her," I repeat. "And you didn't kill me?"
"No. Clove said to wait. If we killed you while you did that whole thing with her, the sponsors would hate us," he says, matter-of-fact.
"Clove said that? Even though I was your biggest competition?" I frown.
"Yeah, that's what she said. I told you that something weird was going on with her. I wish she were still alive so we could talk about it. With you," he says, morose.
"You honestly think she'd be able to talk to me without trying to kill me?" I squint.
"Katniss." He sounds offended. "Of course. She's just… well maybe not at first, but after she got to know you, it'd be fine. She's just got a tough outside. Or had a tough outside."
"You knew her before the games?"
I feel him nod for a very long time before he says, "Yes, yes I did. We trained together. All of us knew each other. So we'd fight together well when we were reaped. Made things tough when people died, though," he says calmly.
Oh God. "Sorry. I know how tough it was to lose Peeta. But Clove…"
Cato stops me. "Nah, don't bother with the sentimental stuff. I should've saved her. I didn't. Same for you and the bread kid. Just try not to think about it. It'll… it'll feel better after a bunch of time has gone by. I knew a lot of the tributes in the past few years."
He's trying to give me emotional advice. This is unprecedented.
"I know," I say. "I know. My father died when I was eleven. I know how that works." I know about the numbness, which is where I am now. I know about the guilt, then the sudden re-realization of what happened, the emptiness. Been there. Felt that.
"Oh. Sorry," he mumbles. "I didn't know… sorry."
"It's fine, really. He taught me to sing," I say impulsively.
"That's cool. He could sing?" He sounds genuinely interested in this.
"Yeah, he could sing. They said that when he sang, birds stopped to listen." As bittersweet as it is to think about my father, repeating that phrase is always comforting.
"That's… that's awesome. See, that's another talent. That drunk guy-"
"Haymitch."
"Right. He was right. Me, I'm not anybody if I'm not a tribute."
"Well, now you get to be somebody. Figure it out."
"Great. Sounds fun."
I guess we've kind of run out of conversation for the moment, because the two of us just sit there, not looking at each other. "Thanks for being worried about me," he finally says.
I am confused. "What?"
"Worried. About me. When I'm hurt. Thanks."
"You're… welcome? Why do you need to thank me for that?" I turn so I can look him in the face, and he looks at me from a very short distance away. His scars are thick and bumpy.
"Because it's… different. I dunno. Doesn't happen usually. The mentors just say like, suck it up and deal. Or they make you work harder. Or the other volunteers complain because me getting hurt slows them down." He shrugs. "You know. Normal stuff."
"Cato, that isn't normal," I shake my head, still looking into his eyes.
He looks very serious. "Really?"
"Nope."
"Oh."
We don't move, looking at each other solemnly. This close, I can tell that his eyes aren't the same color blue as Peeta's, not exactly. They're lighter, colder, and not sweet and soft like Peeta's. I like them, though. They're strong. I need someone to be strong.
"Your eyes are cool," he whispers seriously.
"Thanks. Yours are, too," I whisper back.
"Everybody says that," he tells me conspiratorially. "Like, everybody. All the girls."
I snort, trying not to laugh and completely failing. "That's typically not a good answer when people complement you. Just a tip."
"Oh," he says after a second, and then he just keeps staring into my eyes.
"This is maybe a little weird," I say, making a face.
"Okay." He nods seriously and gently pushes my face away. "But don't go too far away."
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Don't want to lose you, too. You're pretty badass."
I don't know how to respond to this, so I don't say anything. He's spaced out on drugs, so I really don't think he's faking it. I kind of wish he was, because then I wouldn't have to face up to the fact that he likes me.
"So are you," I finally answer. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good. Good. Hey, let's watch the games," he suggests.
"Uh, no. No, let's not do that."
But he won't be deterred. "No, come on, let's do that. Come on," he begs.
I give in. I'll have to see it eventually, and it's probably better that I do it here, rather than in an interview where it's completely inappropriate for me to cry. So I turn on the games.
It's not hard to find some channel recapping the whole thing, using the official footage and some extras to support their favorite contestants. The particular version I find is focusing on me and Cato, predictably, comparing our progress throughout the games, where our paths intersected and then finally intertwined.
Obviously, they cut out significant portions, like when we were sleeping, or condensed the parts where I walked for hours and he confidently wandered around with the other careers, but the significant parts – where he tried to kill me in the tree, where I blew up their supplies, Rue's death, and the entire last six hours – document nearly everything that happened.
"You should've won," he says to me after watching my actions during the first few days. "You played really smart."
"I guess. I was just trying to stay alive, that's all."
"You did a really good job. I'm surprised that little girl had the guts to get near you."
"Rue. Her name was Rue."
"Right. She'd never be able to stop you."
"But what if you caught me?"
"Oh. Well then yeah, we'd probably kill you in really awful way. Make you beg for your life or something. Maybe… I don't know. That's probably not a good thing to talk about." I say nothing, because I have this huge, terrifying knot in my stomach from his casual statement. "Are you mad?" he asks, turning to look at me.
"No." Yes.
"Why? What'd I do?"
"Nothing." I shake my head. I can't say more than one word or I'll cry.
I can feel him looking at me. "No, it's something. Is it because I said I'd kill you?"
"Nope." Yep.
"I didn't mean anything by it. I thought… I thought you wanted me to be honest."
"Yeah." I nod, biting my lip.
"Then I don't understand," he decides after a moment of thought. "Cut me some slack, though. I'm not at one hundred percent."
"Yep." It's getting increasingly hard to stick with the one-word answers.
"Katniss," he sighs. "Stop being like this. Tell me what I did. Please."
I don't answer, and he twists more towards me, trying to look me in the eyes, but I do my best to avoid his. Finally, he takes one giant hand and turns my head so I'm looking back in his eyes from an uncomfortably close distance. "Tell me," he says again.
"Tell you… tell you what?" I choke out, but my voice catches halfway through, and he notices, frowning at me.
"Okay, that was really obvious," he observes. "Are you still gonna say it didn't happen?"
"Maybe."
"Tell me what I did," he asks again. "Please. So I can make it up to you."
"You can't make it up to me. It's kind of impossible to make up for trying to kill somebody, so… I don't know what you want me to say," I say, trying to smile instead of cry.
"Is that what you're upset about?" he says slowly.
I tighten my lips. "I'm fine." I start to stand up. But then he locks his fingers around my arm, stopping me. His strength is irresistible, even while he's tripping on this medication, and it's a intimidating. "Let go of me," I say stiffly.
"No, tell me. I just told you like, everything you wanted to know. And I just want to know so I can say I'm sorry. That's good, right?"
He genuinely has to check, I realize. "Yeah, it's good, but…"
"Listen." Easily, he yanks me back down onto the ground next to me. "I won't say that again," he tells me very, very solemnly. "But don't go. Please."
That's the third time he's said please, trying to get me to stay here, and I know he's not the type of person to beg. He's trying, he really is, and some combination of drugs and brainwashing kept him from realizing that was the wrong thing to say. It's not his fault. He didn't mean it.
I hope.
"Okay," I sigh, covertly wiping my eyes with my fingers. He tries to put his arm around me again so we're sitting close like before, but I squirm away. So he tries again, but it's not hard to avoid his grasp.
"Katniss," he moans, and finally drops his head onto my shoulder. "I'm really sorry," he mutters, watching me blow up their supplies.
I don't squirm away from him right away. "Okay." I take several deep breaths. "Okay."
"And I'll never try to kill you again."
That gives me pause. His mumbled promise means more to me than even I was expecting, no matter how much I tell myself it's not him saying that, it's the morphling. "Don't make any promises you don't mean," I say, being very careful not to move the shoulder he's leaning on. "Lying isn't going to make me feel any better."
"I'm not lying. I'm not," he says stubbornly. I can hear a pout in his voice. "I'm not going to try to kill you ever. It's not like we'll ever be in the games again."
Very true. "Okay," I say.
"Okay you're not mad at me anymore, or okay you don't believe me?" he asks patiently.
I take the time to think about my answer. "I believe you."
"But you're still mad."
I don't deny it, and he doesn't try to make me feel any better. Peeta would've; he always wanted me to feel better. But Cato doesn't say a word. He lets me be mad. In return, I shift a little so his head fits better on my shoulder, put my arm around him, and hold onto him. "Don't fall asleep," I remind him grudgingly.
"I won't," he says. "How could I fall asleep when you're doing that?" He points at the TV, where I'm aiming at the apples on top of the career's pyramid of supplies. I shoot, and the bag splits open. Then I shoot again, and the pile explodes, blowing me backwards. "Did that hurt?" he asks me curiously.
"Yeah. I was deaf in one ear for a while, but they fixed that."
"Oh, cool."
We watch silently as he snaps the neck of the District 4 boy. I feel an echo of my original fear at seeing that, but it's different. He did what he had to in there, and so did I. I mean, he doesn't react when I shoot his ally, Marvel, through the neck. Circumstances were different in there.
"Remember what I said about stuff in the arena not counting?" I ask offhand.
"Yeah," he murmurs, not moving.
"What do you think about it?"
He takes a while to respond. "It'd be nice if it worked like that. But it doesn't."
"What if it could?"
He turns to look up at me. "How would that happen?" he asks, genuinely confused.
"If we agree on it, maybe?" I suggest.
"You don't want it to count either?"
"No, I don't." It's stupid and naïve, but I don't.
"Mmm." He leans into me. "Okay. Then it doesn't count. So does that mean you don't hate me now?" he asks hopefully.
"I didn't hate you. Not since we got out of this," I admit in a small voice.
He doesn't seem to notice how stupid I just was. "Oh good. I don't hate you either," he says cheerfully. "So that's good."
I suddenly have a little trouble breathing, and there's a warm feeling in my chest that I'm unfamiliar with. Roughly, I kind of nudge him, or try to; he weighs too much for me to actually do much good. "You're a lot weirder when you're not trying to kill me," I say, smiling a little bit.
"Most people are," he observes. "Dude, no wonder we couldn't find him."
I frown, then look at the screen – Peeta's painted like a rock, lying on the ground, and I'm talking to him, looking so much more anxious than I remember feeling. "Oh. Yeah," I say distantly, noticing the dark, deep wound in Peeta's leg. The wound that Cato inflicted.
"I'm not sorry I hurt him. If we were in there, I'd probably do it again," he says abruptly, then immediately follows up with, "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."
It's too late. The damage is done. As he says it, I feel something inside me crack. Suddenly, I hate myself for sitting here with him, holding him, comforting him. I feel icky, and I want nothing more than to not be here.
I don't move, but I guess he can feel me stiffen, because he says glumly, "Now you hate me, don't you. Would it help if I said it was all the morphling?"
"No."
He groans in exasperation. "I'm really, really good at making you upset. Does that count as a talent?" I don't answer, but apparently he hears one. "Jerk," he mutters at a chair, then says to me. "You can go. I won't fall asleep and die, I promise."
I'm beginning to think that maybe I'm frozen, because even with that opening, I don't move.
"Go," Cato insists, clumsily pushing me away from him. "It's okay, I'm an idiot. Go." So I go. I sit in the chair several feet from him, but I don't leave the room. Somehow, I still don't want him to die. Then I'd really be alone.
I watch from there as he slides onto the floor, flops onto his side and then rolls over onto his back. Wearily, he throws his arms over his face and heaves a deep sigh. Then he's silent for a very suspicious amount of time.
"Are you-" I start to ask.
"Still awake," he assures me, giving me a thumbs up. "If I was that easy to kill, I wouldn't have made it this far. I'll be fine, calm down. That drunk guy doesn't give me enough credit."
"Haymitch," I correct him. "And still."
"You sure? You don't want me to die?" He sounds skeptical.
I'm not sure how to answer that. "Everything isn't always in black and white," I finally decide on saying. "I can be mad at you without wanting to kill you. And you can be an idiot without being my enemy."
"Oh." He sounds surprised. "Really?"
"Yep. And I am mad at you, idiot."
"That's okay. I can handle that. Most people are mad at me."
I know he's not a monster – I've known that for a while now – but these offhand statements he keeps making only underline that. I don't stop being mad at him or anything, but I think I'm beginning to understand him, at least. So I keep one eye on him while I half-heartedly watch the games, to make sure he still doesn't sleep.
We've got about two or three hours left before the morphling wears off and he can sleep. I'm not sure how long we're there in that room, watching ourselves fight and kill. He doesn't move from his spot on the floor for most of that time, doesn't watch anything that happens. Instead, he stares up at the ceiling. But then, he sits up, looking at the screen intensely.
I haven't been paying attention to what part of the games they're showing, so I'm taken off-guard. I glance at the screen; they're showing me, when the rain started and my package came. And Cato's staring intently at the picture of me. I watch myself realize Cato's in trouble, panic, and start to run. I look so terrified, and thinking back, I didn't even know why. Didn't want to be alone, I guess, but in the moment, I just knew I was scared.
"Why'd you run?" he asks.
"What?" I stall.
"Why'd you run right there?" he repeats, twisting his head around so he can look at me.
"I was scared," I say slowly, almost a question.
"Yeah, but why? Did you think I'd escape?"
I wish I could say yes. "No… but maybe I should've worried about that."
"Then what are you worried about?" He sits up more and points at the screen with his good hand. "Because it's obviously something."
Reluctantly, I look at my own face, scratched up and drained of color, and I know there's no denying this. "Yeah, it was something," I say reluctantly.
We watch me dive into the cave without a second thought, and a camera inside the cave catches my face when I see he's under water. I remember how that felt, just for a second, and I'm scared he's drowning all over again. Breathlessly, I watch me rescue him. The girl in the footage isn't about to let anything happen that isn't part of her plan. I wish I could find some of that strength right now.
"You were scared for me?" he asks.
I don't have an answer, because I was, I was petrified for him, that he'd be dead and that I'd be alone. But I can't tell him that. That's too stupid, even for me.
Cato pulls himself to his knees, shuffles over to me and slowly puts his head in my lap, reaching up his good arm to take my hand and hold it gently his giant fingers. I don't know what to do, but I don't move. What's happening feels delicate, breakable, and very, very precious. I can't damage this moment.
Still, I have to ask, "What are you doing?" My voice shakes almost uncontrollably.
"Thank you," he says, muffled.
"For what?"
"You're… you…" He can't seem to finish that sentence, so he starts in on another. "I shouldn't say this. But you're completely… the best person I've ever met."
"No, I'm… I'm not, really I'm not," I say hastily. "I've done really awful things that you just don't know about-"
"Shut up," he says, sounding muffled and amused.
"Okay." Hesitantly, I put my hand on top of his head, feeling the coarseness of his hair. This feels really weird, him being so vulnerable and kind, but I like it. I like him.
That realization bowls me over. I like him. I like how he's there for me and how he's strong. I like his ruthlessness, his quiet, surprising kindness. Everything. I like him, and I never want to let him leave me.
"Get up here," I say to him. "Come here," I repeat when he doesn't move. He hauls himself up, climbs into the chair next to me, and kind of curls up next to me so his head is on my shoulder, his arms loosely around my waist, his legs half on top of mine. "Don't fall asleep," I warn him, then promptly drift off myself. I didn't even know I was tired, but then he's so warm, draped over me like this, and everything is so secure. So yeah. I fall asleep.
I haven't really slept in ages. The few hours I got last night don't count. Neither does the drug-induced sleep they gave me while they were turning me back into me. But this definitely counts.
After a few hours, I jolt awake with the sudden realization that Cato could be dead right now, all because of me. "Cato," I say loudly, wrenching my eyes open. It's dark outside, the room lit only by the glow of the television screen. For a second, I can't feel anything, just my own blind panic.
But he's right here, holding onto me. He hasn't moved an inch. "I'm here," he murmurs. I look down at him; his eyes are open, and he's watching footage of him and me in the training facility earlier. "So you can go back to sleep."
"Oh good," I sigh, and after a second, I actually do. There's none of the usual paranoia about what might happen if I let myself sleep, none of the worry, because he's completely capable of taking care of both of us. And I think I actually trust him to.
I let my eyes shut again, fall back into that place halfway between conscious and sleep, and then I hear something. Someone knocks on the door, and then it opens and people walk in. Next to me, Cato stiffens. I know that means I should be worried, too, but I can't bring myself to be any more awake, because – I realize – I'm exhausted.
"What are you doing here?" Cato says in a low, dangerous voice.
"Come now. That's no way to speak to your president."
A scent drifts into my head. Blood and roses.
"What are you doing here?" is all Cato says again, sitting up straight, keeping only one arm around me.
"Looking for the victor," Snow says pointedly. "She and I have some unfinished business. Though it seems that perhaps the same may be true for the two of you, as well."
"She's busy right now," Cato answers coldly. "What do you want?"
The smell gets stronger, and someone sits on the couch. "Not that it's any business of yours, but Miss Everdeen owes the people of the Capitol a small favor."
"What kind of favor?" That's the question I would ask if I could pull myself into consciousness, so I'm glad Cato asks for me.
"I'm sure you're aware of the radiant beauty your co-victor unconsciously possesses," Snow begins pompously. Drowsily, I hate the sound of his voice, then realize he's talking about my radiant beauty.
"What's your point?" Cato says gruffly, and it's impossible to tell if he's agreeing or not.
"She's become somewhat of a city-wide sensation. In high demand. I just have a proposition for her. That's all. But seeing as she's… busy, I suppose we'll have to talk another time. Good day."
Retreating footsteps, and then the smell of blood and roses is just a lingering echo. Beside me, Cato shifts uncomfortably, then gets up, leaving me cold and alone. "Hey," I mumble, frowning, and blindly reach out for him.
"Stay right here. I'll be back in just a second," he says. He puts something warm over me, his hand hesitating on my shoulder, and then he's gone.
I don't know how much time passes before he comes back; I drift in and out of sleep peacefully. At some point he comes back with Haymitch, and they talk, but I don't really listen. This is the first time I've felt peaceful since before the games, and I like it. The significance of their words escapes me, so my sleep is undisturbed. I don't even dream, which is a miracle in and of itself. And right before I fall completely asleep, I decide I could maybe get used to this.
-xXx-
A/N – extended edition!
First of all, I'm going to respond to the reviewers. To everyone who said something sweet about me/my story/this chapter – Tally Jennifer Youngblood, Fanpire109, scoco, Saucy-Duck, Nilrecurring, munroxochika, RachRox12, ..Attic, books-n-cookies, londoneyedgirl, LvR93, ILove2Write13 – thank you so much! I'll never take all this positive reinforcement for granted. You all rock! And now, I'm going to answer the more specific concerns.
ngochan: You brought up if there's the possibility of Cato coming back to Twelve with them. You even used puppy dog eyes. To you I can only say that I REALLY WANT THIS TO HAPPEN TOO, but I will not say definitely yes or definitely no, because of spoilers. But I want this to happen.
Elea121: In response to your question about how Haymitch's reaction to Peeta's death may be too strong – I see what you're saying about Haymitch training a bunch of other kids and seeing them die, but I think Peeta's death would've hit him particularly hard for the following reasons. He thought Peeta was a fighter, as stated in the books, and he wanted him to win, too, if at all possible. I think he sympathizes with Peeta's star-crossed love thing. Haymitch always seemed to me to be a big softie who hates it, so I think he deeply mourned all the kids who died, but didn't let himself show it. There's a line at the end of Mockingjay, the one where he contributes the names of children he coached to died to the book of people to never forget, that supports my theory. Plus, he trained Peeta separate from Katniss. He spent just as much time with him as he did with Katniss. True, he and Katniss had a connection, but I think he and Peeta had an understanding by that point, at least.
Dra9onf7yz: You, being an apparent archer (which is freaking cool), picked up on the fact that a hand injury wouldn't kill someone. This is true. I admit I took some liberties with that. But in my defense, using your hurt anything is going to result in more blood loss than normal. Also, there's several huge nerves running through your hand, nerves that are very painful to get severed or injured. So in terms of just hurting, I'm going to stick by my assertion that it's one of the most painful things ever, aside from like, a broken femur. Hence the morphling, hence the subsequent loopiness.
Merekat6: I already answered you privately, but I'm going to also restate the answer here, so everyone else will know. I plan on continuing this until the next Quarter Quell, at least. I haven't even thought about how the whole plot of Mockingjay would change without Peeta, but I'll get there when I get there. Until then, rest assured that this isn't going to end before the 75th games.
MsCassity: You didn't particularly ask a question, but you deserve a separate mention. Your consistent and detailed compliments completely blow me away every time. I mean, I've thought through my character's motivations and personalities, but you somehow manage to put things a different way and give me the perfect idea for a backstory, or a phrase that I may borrow some time in the future. You. Rock. That is all.
In fact, you all do. Everybody who's reviewed and all of you who lurk and read, you're all amazing. I heart you. Even my mom and sister, who make me very nervous by reading this. Have a wonderful day!
VOLDEMORT OUT.
