Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Hunger Games universe. All characters, names, and places belong to their respective owners.
We're alone in the carriage. Peeta sits across from me, but he doesn't make any move to speak to me, doesn't berate me about visiting Gale or running to the Seam. He just sits there with an almost disappointed look on his face.
"I didn't mean to make you worry," I say, just barely looking up at him.
His voice is steady, reserved, "I don't want to hear it, Katniss, not again. What you do with other men is your business, and your business alone. You're right; I'm not your husband and I'm certainly not your father. Just make sure he pulls out. Hell, I'll buy you rubbers."
Heat rises through me, but at the same time I'm not angry because this, this I can make sense of. Peeta Mellark is not a saint, and it's evident in the way he speaks to me. Callous, crude, bitter...I can understand that.
"So it's okay when you do it," I prompt him, "but not when he does it? Is that right?"
His eyes linger on mine, the unspoken hanging between us.
"Those are completely different situations, Katniss," he looks downward, adjusting back into the carriage seat. "Whatever I have done with you, it isn't nearly the same thing as you running off with that, that boy…"
I stare at him. "Whatever you've done with me? Good grief, you kissed me, Peeta."
As soon as the words leave my mouth I know there is no going back. No pretending like his lips hadn't touched mine, like he hadn't wrapped his arms around my body and touched me in my bed.
"Katniss—" he starts.
"No, Peeta," I say, "you kissed me."
"You know what, Katniss, you're right. I kissed you. I acted inappropriately towards you and I regret it. I forgot our places and I'm sorry, it won't happen again. But that is hardly comparable to you disappearing with no notice or forewarning to see a factory boy in the dead of night. So yes, I apologize for the way I behaved, but I would never—it simply isn't the same."
"How so? I would say your actions were far worse. You touched me, you kissed me. He lay beside me ten feet away from his younger siblings."
"You could have been killed, Katniss!" he exclaims, avoiding the bulk of my statement.
"I'm not a fragile flower, Peeta," I snap at him. "I have made it this far out on my own and I most certainly don't need you to protect me from the big bad wolf."
It's a lie. I had made it this far out, but only due to Peeta's help. Without his bread and his generosity, Prim and I would likely both be dead.
"I am not attempting to take away—" he runs his hands through his hair in frustration, "You know what, I give up. There is absolutely nothing I can say that will quell your nature. Perhaps all of this, it was a mistake. After all, you are a thief..."
It feels like he has struck me the way his words fall over me. He is trying to hurt me. For him to bring up that now? For him to say that he regrets bringing me in?
"Katniss, I didn't mean—" a panicked, regretful, look floods his face
"Don't speak to me," I say, my words thick with anger. "We're almost there, just please, Peeta—"
The house is dead silent when we arrive. Peeta doesn't touch me like he usually does, doesn't offer to help me up the stairs or guide me through the door.
We make our way through the house without talking. My anger fades into something more like discomfort as I walk beside him, my head turned away so I won't catch his glance.
"You going to bed?" I ask, in some part to break the silence, as we both head towards the hallway.
He nearly bumps into a mahogany side table when he hears my voice, "No, Katniss," he says softly, "I don't think I can sleep right about now. You should get some sleep, though, unless you want to join me for a drink."
"I'm not thirsty."
Peeta laughs. "That wasn't the type of drink I was offering."
My eyes widen. Oh.
"Well?" he asks as we pass by his office. "The offer stands."
"I haven't forgiven you," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes drift towards me, and I'm suddenly aware of the fact that two of my front buttons are still undone.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me, Katniss," he sighs, "I'm just asking if you want a drink."
"Fine," I tell him, pushing my hand against his chest and gliding through the half-opened door. "I'll have a drink."
The liquor is absolutely horrid. The taste borders on revolting, something equivalent to charred leather, and it burns my throat as I down it. Why on earth people do so much for this liquid, I don't know.
"Scotch," Peeta says with a nod. "You'll get used to it."
I blanch. "I don't think I am ever going to drink this again."
"You'd be surprised." He pauses. "I was going to show you this later," he says, taking another swig, "but no reason not to give it to you now."
"What?" I ask him, taking a cautious sip of the liquor. It doesn't burn much less this time, but now that I know what to expect it passes easier.
"Why don't you slow down there," Peeta says, eyeing me. "You'll regret that in the morning if you don't, trust me there."
"Why should I trust you?" I down the rest of my drink. "You don't trust me."
"Katniss—" he says, reaching down underneath his desk, "don't start, just come...look at this."
I stand up and look over towards him. I can just barely feel the affect of the alcohol running through me, the rush of liquor pouring into my bloodstream.
"Here," Peeta says, handing me a painting and motioning for me to sit back down, "look at it."
The painting is not terribly large, maybe a foot in height and width. The frame is a dark wood, beautifully carved with an assortment of flowers. But the frame isn't important, because the painting is a portrait—a rendition of a young woman, a beautiful girl about my age dressed in white. The woman's blonde hair is pulled back under a straw hat with a large black bow, and there's a little gold thing adorning her neck. She's younger, prettier, less worn, but I still recognize her.
My mother.
"How," I ask, "how did you…?"
"Look at the engraving on the back of the frame," he says, "I found it when I was sorting through some things."
The original engraving, which must have been my mother's maiden name, has been scratched out and somebody has crudely carved one word in the frame's wood: Everdeen.
"There was a letter tucked in the frame as well," Peeta says. "A letter by my father, unsent."
"A letter," I question, "to my mother?" I had always known my mother had grown up well-off, but she never really spoken of the Mellark Family.
"I found it a while ago. It was a love letter, written to her after she had wed your father. It seems your mother and my father were promised to be married at one point."
My mother and Peeta's father were almost married, that close? The thought is ludicrous, to think that my own mother was almost a Mellark.
"Our parents…" I trail off, because what can really be said about knowing each other's parents have surely kissed. It's shocking, to know that my own mother and his father were some type of lovers, friends at least. I can't imagine it, not from the woman I knew or the girl she used to be. "Are you certain," I question, "my mother?"
Peeta nods, as if he knows what I'm thinking, "Yes," he pauses, "It's odd, isn't it, that they lost each other so many years ago, and now, here we are. Fate is a strange mistress."
I don't think it is fate as much as the fact that we grew up in the same city and happened to run across each other on that night so long ago, but I don't tell Peeta that.
"We shouldn't fight, Katniss," he says, rubbing his temples. "I know you say there is nothing between you and Gale, but if you wish to be with him, if that's what you think will make you happy for the time being or, when you get older, for forever, I have no place to say anything."
"I'm not in love with Gale," I sigh.
"No," he stops me, "it doesn't matter. I have no right to you. I was cruel and presumptive and I never meant those things I said. I love having you and Prim here. The two of you have offered so much to my life. So please, don't take what I said in haste to heart."
I laugh. I don't know quite why, or where it comes from, but I laugh.
"I think the drinks are starting to set in," Peeta gives me a wry smile as he steps up from his chair. "Come on, I'll bring you up to your room."
I wake with a headache. So this is what everybody has always carried on about when they've talked about being hungover.
It's not that painful, though; not anything worse than the sharpness that used to fill my head after working a fourteen-hour shift in a hot, loud, overcrowded factory.
I lie alone in bed for a few hours, not wanting to wake my sister and lacking anything real to do with my morning. None of the servants bother me; nobody does. That is, until I hear a steady knocking on my door.
"Are you up?" a voice says, accompanying the now quieter knocks. It's Peeta. What he wants from me at this hour I don't know.
"I'm awake," I call out, sitting up a little in bed.
He doesn't bother to ask me if I'm decent, doesn't seem to be scandalized by the fact that I'm still in my nightgown. Though I suppose we're both past that point.
"You didn't come down to breakfast," he says, closing the door behind him. "The first-time liquor getting to you?"
I nod wordlessly, groaning into my pillow.
Peeta laughs. "You really didn't have that much to drink. A few glasses of scotch isn't enough to kill a man, don't worry. You haven't seen the worst of it, trust me."
His hand presses against the end of my bed. "How about I make last night up to you, bring you out?" He raises a questioning eyebrow. "Might be the last chance we get for a while. Some of the wedding guests will be arriving tonight, should be here by three. It's a shame Prim still isn't well."
"I think I might visit with her tonight," I say. "I barely saw her yesterday."
My sister is still bedridden, contained to her room. She has mostly slept the past few days, so I haven't bothered her.
Peeta blanches. "You really shouldn't," he says. "I'm thinking whatever she has might be contagious. One of my doctors, a Mr. Beetee, is coming
"You think it might be something more?" I ask, my heart quickening, "Do you think it's serious?"
Peeta bites his lip. "I'm not a doctor, Katniss. I can't speak to that, but I wouldn't worry. Mr. Beetee is the finest in the city. He will know what to do. For the time being, though, I am going to close up the connecting door between your rooms."
I pull myself from underneath the covers and shift towards the end of the bed. My sister is the only thing I really have left. My father is gone, my mother too. I am not going to be the last Everdeen standing. I couldn't survive it. Without Prim, I have no purpose.
"Please," Peeta says, his hand reaching for mine, "trust me. Don't worry just yet."
His thumb rubs against the sensitive center of my palm's, brushing back and forth from the start of my fingers to the end of my wrist.
"Fine," I say, pulling my hand away, "give me some time to get dressed."
"So," Peeta says as we stand outside of the mansion's gates, "what do you want to do?"
"What," I ask mockingly, "you don't have a plan?"
"None at all," he smirks, looking outwards towards the park. "Would like me to call for the carriage?" He pauses cautiously. "I can even bring you to the Seam, if you want?"
I shake my head. I like this, just the two of us and the city.
This part of Manhattan is so different from the Seam, with the clean stone buildings, electric lighting, and elaborate, sturdy street signs. Everything about here is fresh and green and beautiful, a little paradise so separate from the slums with which it shares an island.
"Well," he says, leaning back against the walled post, "that rules out Coney Island. We could always go to the Met? Rivals the museums of Europe. A truly splendid collection of bronze age and Roman pieces. I do think you really would enjoy it."
I shrug, the velvet bow on my collar flapping in the breeze. "I don't know all that much about this part of town," I admit, feeling somewhat guilty. Prim would love spend a day at the Met or the Natural History museum, or wherever Peeta would take her if she wasn't ill.
"Hmm," he pauses, "would you settle on taking a stroll along the park? We can buy some street food along the way, maybe pick up a trinket for your sister?"
"That sounds fine," I say, standing a little straighter and taking the arm he extends to me. It feels nice to touch him, though I'm not sure why, to feel his steady arm wrapped around mine.
We walk aimlessly along the park, ignoring the birds and the people, and just...wandering. The weather isn't too cold and the sun beams brightly above us. It's nice. I even find myself leaning against him as we walk, my head nestling against his body. If he thinks it inappropriate, he doesn't do anything to stop me.
"I lied last night," he says, out of nowhere, as we reach the other side of the abnormally quiet street.
I pause, thankful for the lack of foot traffic, and pull my head from his shoulder. What exactly does he mean—he lied last night? He had already apologized for wishing he had never taken me in; what more could there be to say?
"When I said I regretted kissing you." His voice is firm, providing the explanation I never even asked for. "It was inappropriate and I acted wrongly against you," he sighs, "but I don't regret it…I don't regret you."
I look away from him, because how am I supposed to respond to that?
He deflates a little against me, his arm loosening, "You don't have to say anything. I know you're young, and I don't wish to make you uncomfortable or pressure you, but I can't pretend like I don't, like I don't…"
I bite my lip, wordlessly begging him not to continue. I don't want him to say whatever he's going to say. It's too uncomfortable, to think about him wanting me in some way, not when everything about it seems to sicken him.
Peeta shakes his head, dismissing the thought. "Never mind," he says, dropping his arm from mine.
The rest of our outing is awkward, at least for me. Peeta does what he does best: he pretends as if those words never left his mouth, covers my silence with pretty words and presents for my sister.
I—or rather Peeta—buy Prim all sorts of odd items. A pale blue silk handkerchief, a tiny doll with blonde hair and eyes that move, even a miniature tea set. There was a point where I might have stopped him from purchasing these things, but by now I owe him so much that penny treats aren't going to add all too much to the pile.
After meandering throughout the park for hours, we are both exhausted. I expect this of Peeta, a man who has never been without, but me, I never have trouble walking through the city. I wonder for a moment if I have gone soft. If so many weeks of not standing on my feet all day, of being pampered with soapy baths and pink satin dressing gowns has caused me to lose stamina. Or maybe it's just the fancy shoes, tight and small and overly buttoned. As soon as my feet start to cramp I want to head back, but Peeta insists on stopping for a moment, taking a seat on one of the wet, snow—covered benches in the park.
"I really don't need to rest," I tell him as I sit down on the opposite end of the wrought iron bench. "I'm fine."
Peeta shakes his head. "We will catch a cab on the way back, no sense in not taking a break. Here," he says, pushing something from his pocket into my hand, "I had something made for you."
It's a box; little and wooden, covered in a pink and green floral paper and lined with little bits of amber velvet and lace flowers. Pretty, certainly, but not particularly special in a home like Peeta's. My sister had made at least ten of these since we came.
But nevertheless, I thank Peeta, offering him a curt remark about its usefulness.
"That's not the gift." He laughs. "You have to open it."
With that, I pop open the lid, hoping that whatever is inside the box didn't cost him too much.
It's a simple gold locket, custom work but not new like I would have expected. There are little marks on the front, signs of wear, and yet there are new engravings. Primroses and what must be Katniss flowers are carved around a little etching of a bird. When I open it, I nearly gasp. There's a little painting of my father's picture on one side, and Prim and and my mother, most likely based on the oil found in the attic, on the other.
"Oh Peeta," I say, "It's beautiful. Did you paint it?"
His mouth widens in a smile. "I did, I thought you might want to have a memento of your family. Don't touch it too much though. It isn't quite dry."
There's something about the way he looks at me in that moment, the way his eyes linger on mine, that makes me want to reach up and kiss him. But I manage some self-control and instead, in an attempt to show my gratitude, I push the clasp open and try to put the necklace on. When I fail miserably, he offers to do the honors, gathering back my hair and sliding his hands against my neck.
"There you go," he says as he fixes the clasp. "Now let's head back, get fixed up. I want to introduce you to my guests."
Author's Note: This story is almost hitting 250 reviews, guys! Thanks for all the love and support, sorry for the delayed chapter. Let me know what you thought in the comments below.
Big thanks to my lovely beta Court for getting this out so quickly. And as always, you can follow me on tumblr at starveinsafety and everlarkfanfictionclub. You can submit prompts to everlarkfanfictionprompts!