A/N: So sorry it took me so long to update! I started writing this chapter while I was still on vacation, but then I just haven't had time to sit down and actually finish it until now. Oh yeah, and I just took a 12-hr Board Exam (oh, you know, to become a US board-certified physician) today. So if I missed any spelling or grammar mistakes, it's probably because I'm really tired.
Anyway, this chapter contains events from chapters 12-13 of Young Blood, plus some extra details about things that were skimmed over some in my other story. This tale from Peeta's perspective is going a lot slower than I had originally intended, as I wasn't going to cover everything from Young Blood. But I am having so much fun writing this, exploring pertinent events from Young Blood from his point-of-view that I don't really care! And you guys seem to like it, so I guess it's alright! I thought, "Oh, I'll only cover the really important stuff," but now I'm realizing that everything is important! Haha.
Thank you, thank you, thank you x 1000 to all my readers AND for all the feedback/reviews/comments (call them what you like). You guys are just too much! I have such loyal readers, and it's such a wonderful experience to be able to read comments and messages and interact with everyone. This story is nowhere near finished, but I have a feeling you'll be sticking around to read more from Peeta's side of things. As always, feedback is GREATLY appreciated. Hope you enjoy!
The next flashback he had in Katniss's kitchen, he did hurt her. It was indirectly, but Peeta was still frustrated with himself.
He heard the loud pops - so like gunfire - and his brain betrayed him. He was pulled from where he'd been standing in her house to somewhere altogether quite different. He was back in the Capitol, restrained in a dark room. He thrashed and bucked, but his wrists and ankles were tied down tightly with thick straps that were chained to the chair. And then the door opened with a loud clang and figures clothed in all black descended on him. He felt the sting of a syringe and the burn of the tracker jacker venom as it entered his veins.
Then the images started.
Only this time, Katniss was smiling, laughing not maniacally but mirthfully, her hand in his. They were back in District Twelve, and her skin was covered with burn scars. She looked up at him, but her expression changed from a smile to a frown, her brow creased with worry. She moved in close and wrapped her arms around him. She was saying something, but the words came muffled to his ears. But then she started singing and he could hear every word.
"I am bringing two horses to the fair, to the fair,
Long of neck and white of hair,
Two white horses to sell them there,
At the fair, at the fair, at the fair.
From my Father's house I did come,
And when I'm done I'll see my home,
Two white horses to sell them there,
At the fair, at the fair, at the fair."
Her voice trailed off at the second verse, and Peeta was sharply returned to the present. He wasn't being tortured in the Capitol. He was standing in her kitchen and she was standing behind him, her scarred arms linked around his.
"Don't stop," he said, his tone pained. He could feel his mind trying to slip back into that world filled with fear and anguish.
"Don't stop...your song." He clarified, his voice still soft. And so she started singing again, the sound of her voice something fragile and delicate and altogether beautiful.
"I saw my true love at the fair,
Bright of eye and light of hair,
Bringing my horses to sell them there,
At the fair, at the fair, at the fair.
"But from my fayher's house I did come
And when I'm done I'll see my home
So I had to leave my lover there,
At the fair, at the fair, at the fair..."
When her voice trailed off and the song ended, Peeta turned and gathered her small frame into his arms. She didn't seem to resist, and Peeta felt her melt into his embrace. He held her for quite some time, his back pressed into the edge of the counter.
When he slackened his hold on her, she stepped back and there was a silmultaneous crunch and wince from Katniss.
"Be careful," she told him softly, her face still screwed up in pain.
"Oh no, what happened?" he asked quickly, fearful that he had hurt her. "What did I do...?" he added, leaning down and gently placing his hands on her shoulders.
"It's nothing," she said, but when she winced again, he knew she was lying.
"Katniss..." he began to plead, but his tone was a bit sterner than he had intended. He took a step toward her and heard the crunch of glass under his shoes.
"You broke a glass, but it's ok," she replied quickly, averting her gaze. But she didn't move. She was quiet and as still as a statue, as if locked in place, so Peeta knew something was off.
That's when he saw the blood. It wasn't much, just enough to tell that she had stepped in the glass to reach him. He froze and willed himself to not have another flashback. But his concern for her overshadowed any threat his subconscious tried to pull him under again. She was hurt and it was his fault. All he could do now was assess the damage and rectify the situation, somehow.
Katniss protested, tried to assure him that she was quite alright, that she wasn't hurt. But a part of his brain, the part that had scanned her features for any hint of pretense, any sign of discomfort or pain – even when he himself was sick – during their days together in the cave, the part that was always looking out for her wellbeing took over. He picked her up, holding her around her back and shoulders and behind her knees, and carried her – very carefully – to the couch. The trickiest part was getting out of his shoes at the edge of the kitchen. He didn't want to track glass or blood any farther than he had to, but with Katniss in his arms and his artificial leg, it took a few slow and skilled movements for Peeta to be able to balance on each leg as he stepped out of his shoes and left them at the threshold to the living room.
Katniss didn't protest any more once she was in his arms, but instead wrapped her own arms around his neck and clung to him. He set her down gently on the couch and was off to gather supplies – towels, bandages, tweezers, and rubbing alcohol. Clomping off upstairs, Peeta composed himself. Just because he was worried about the cuts on her feet didn't mean his mind wasn't going haywire at the feel of her lithe figure in his arms, the closeness of her lips to his, the smell of her lilac shampoo.
He thought back to the night a few weeks ago when he had invited Marc, Anabel, Edda, and Theo all over for dinner. Katniss had been wary of the company. She was something akin to a wild animal, sometimes, Peeta thought. She was beautiful and strong, but there was also something untamed about her, something easily startled or affected by any change in her routine. And so he had to coax her to get ready for their dinner that night, leading her to the bathroom to shower, then waiting for her to come back into her bedroom. He had moved to leave when she was clean, allow her some privacy to dress. But she had asked him to stay in such a way that made his heart beat in his throat and caused his blood to be diverted elsewhere in his body. He had turned away from her as she dressed, but caught sight of her naked form in the vanity mirror – just a few curves, an expanse of skin mottled with scars, but enough to make his breath hitch in his throat.
He tried to clear his head of those sorts of thoughts and he willed his body to not respond – his first responsibility was to take care of Katniss. He took a few deep breaths as he rummaged around upstairs for towels and begged his heart to not hammer through his chest.
That whole summer, he had resigned himself to simply enjoy the time he was able to spend with Katniss. He was in love with her, he knew that. But he couldn't just declare his love for her on national television as he had done two years prior. So he had decided to be more subtle, try to ascertain what feelings – if any – she had for him. She had kissed him several times, and as far as he could tell, she enjoyed having him over each night – for dinner and whatever else came after. They trekked to the lake to swim, to pick blueberries and blackberries on his days off. They sat close on her couch to work on the book of memories or would talk or watch recordings late into the night. It was the sort of thing he might have imagined doing with Katniss after they'd returned from the 74th Hunger Games, desperately "in love" – if he could remember his exact thoughts from that time. The easy routine they had fallen into, the soft smiles and shy glances and laughter – perhaps things would have worked out that way had there never been the threat from President Snow, the uprisings, or the Quarter Quell.
"So whatever you do, don't give up…" Peeta's father had told him nine years ago. He had lost the girl he'd admired to a boy from the Seam, and the story resonated with Peeta. Perhaps his story would have worked out much the same after the games. Perhaps he would have lost Katniss to Gale, just as his father had lost Mrs. Everdeen to a coal miner.
Whatever the case, that wasn't how things had turned out for Peeta. Fate had thrust him and Katniss together over and over again, had made sure their lives were inextricably linked. He hadn't given up, even when she had ignored him for days, weeks, months even. And he wouldn't give up, ever.
After he'd apologized. After he had picked every sliver of glass from the bottoms of her feet. After he'd watched her wince as he pressed the alcohol-soaked washcloth to her wounds, wanting to kiss away the painful expression on her face. After he'd bandaged her feet and let her stand, he finally breathed a sigh of relief. She was joking and smiling and rather unaffected by the cuts on her feet. He still felt a black cloud of guilt casting its shadow on him, though. Because of something he had done, she was hurting.
He let those thoughts eat at him as he cleaned up the kitchen floor on his hands and knees. Katniss was quiet, and he almost thought she'd gone upstairs or was at least resting on the couch until he glanced back toward the living room. She was standing in the threshold, leaning on the doorframe and the sight of her made the knot in his stomach twist even tighter.
"I'm sorry," he said, hoping with each apology the guilt would ease up. "This is all my fault…"
She was suddenly kneeling near him, her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were searching his features and her smile had faded. He rose then, thinking he might apologize again, but then her hands were on either side of his face. For a moment he thought she was going to kiss him. But instead, she leaned in – eyes closed – and rested her forehead on his. Peeta felt his hands go reflexively to her waist and he thought he felt her shudder slightly.
When the moment passed and they moved to stand, Peeta slipped and came crashing back down to the floor. He could have cursed himself – it was his fault the floor was wet, not to mention his cumbersome prosthetic leg – but he had cracked the back of his head on the tile and so his thoughts were a bit hazy at the moment. Not to mention that Katniss Everdeen was lying on top of him.
Peeta let out a rather pathetic moan and rubbed the back of his head. Once she made sure he was all right, Katniss scrambled off of him quickly. If his head hadn't been throbbing, he might have been able to enjoy the feel of her body pressed against his. But soon she was standing, holding her hand out to help him up. He could have laughed to think of her tiny frame lifting him from the ground, but he reached for her anyway, even if only for the contact.
He also could have laughed when she made him bend so that she could inspect his head, then turn so she could look in his eyes. She was so close, her face mere inches from his own as her gray eyes met his blue ones. She looked a little too long though, her expression transforming from concern to something quite different.
He could have easily taken advantage of the moment and closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to hers. But his head ached and he was tired and he'd already caused her enough harm for one evening.
"Katniss…" Peeta said, then apologized quickly when she started in surprise. "You just had this…uh, dreamy look on your face."
When he saw her blush, hope flared in his heart. He counted that moment, along with all the kisses, the smiles, as evidence that perhaps she did have feelings for him – feelings other than just friendship.
When they settled back onto the couch, she drew him down so that his head was in her lap, her fingers running through his too-long hair. She'd made several comments over the past month or two about him needing a decent haircut. He'd let his blond curls grow out a bit at first to cover the scars that swirled across his forehead. But now he was to the point where he really did need a trim, his thick locks just getting in the way. He thought about asking her to cut it for him, and imagined sitting in her kitchen, Katniss hacking at his hair with a pair of sheers. He smiled when he thought of her deadly precision with a bow and arrow translating into a haircut. Perhaps he would pay a visit to the barber at the shop two doors down from the bakery, just as she had urged him a few weeks back.
He had closed his eyes when she started playing with his hair, but he opened them and was about to tell her his plans for a trim when the look on her face caught him completely off guard.
Her gray eyes were trained on his and she wasn't exactly smiling. But her cheeks were flushed in the most becoming manner, and her entire countenance radiated with such affection that it left him speechless. Dare he call it love? It was definitely something. Love, devotion, adulation, tenderness – he couldn't quite put a name to it.
Then he began to put the pieces together.
The soft smiles. The laughter. The way her hands found his during moments of quiet reassurance or comfort. The kisses – whether a peck on the cheek or the brush of her lips against his. The shy glances. The fact that she enjoyed spending time with him, had even taught him how to swim. She hadn't run from him during his flashbacks. No, she had walked through broken glass, had lacerated her feet to bring him back. She had sung to him, the sound of her voice the brightest beacon in a dark and terrible night.
There had to be something there. She had to feel some sort of affection toward him. Why else would she put up with him? Any other way, it just didn't make sense. He was a fool for not seeing it sooner. But he was a cautious fool.
He searched her face for a second, watched as her blush deepened. She looked as if she'd been caught red-handed, and that didn't sit well with him, for some reason.
"What're you thinking?" He asked, his tone inquisitive. She stopped running her fingers through his hair, her hands resting on either side of his head.
"Nothing," she replied and he could tell she wasn't exactly being truthful. But he didn't press her. It was enough that he had finally begun to put two and two together. He shut his eyes again and couldn't keep from smiling.
"What're you thinking?" Katniss inquired.
"That I'm going to fall asleep laying here like this," he told her. And it wasn't exactly a lie because he did feel the irresistible pull of unconsciousness as he rested there on her couch. But the giddiness he felt had nothing to do with sleep.
She teased him, assured him that she'd at least get him a blanket if he fell asleep on the couch. He could tell she was hesitating when he stood and stretched, but she didn't stop him when he moved to leave. Perhaps she stayed seated on the couch because of her wounds, and he cursed himself as he entered his own kitchen for not checking on her feet again before going home. He had half a mind to turn right back around and go check on her then, but he didn't want to alarm her, bursting in through her kitchen door when it was already so late. He breathed out a heavy sigh, pushing a few blond curls from his eyes – it really was getting too long – and thought about her delicate fingers running through his hair only moments ago.
Peeta went to bed that night dreaming of pressing his lips to the tip of each of her fingers. How soft would they be? Perhaps her fingers would be calloused from months of hunting with her bow. Perhaps they would be rough against his lips, and he shivered at the thought. He would kiss each fingertip, kiss the palm of her hands, her wrists.
And how would she react? Would she let him get away with such intimate gestures? Would she allow him to cross the line between friendship and something more? Or had he already crossed that line a long time ago?
He slept soundly that night. It was the first time in months that he didn't have to rely on powerful sedatives to help him rest.
"They didn't know the odds – that the odds were against them," Haymitch had said, weeks ago, when they'd worked on the book of memories for the first time with him. He had been speaking of those two tributes from District 12 the year after he won.
"They had so much hope…" Their former mentor said, the pain in his voice almost tangible. "But the odds…"
Katniss had been flipping through the book of memories when Peeta checked on her the day after the incident with the broken glass. He'd asked Marc and Theo to close up the bakery for him that night so he could walk back to the Victor's Village early that afternoon. He knew Katniss didn't enjoy being cooped up, off her feet, and his mind propelled him back to the winter when she'd injured herself jumping over the tall fence that enclosed the district. She'd been stuck indoors for weeks, but for the minor cuts on her feet, Peeta guessed she'd heal in just a few days.
He brought her cheese buns and she grinned and they worked on the book of memories. It was the wrong season, the wrong set of injuries, but in every other way it was so like the time before the Quarter Quell that Peeta had to shake himself to be certain it was real.
"So, have you ordered the supplies yet?" Katniss asked one evening.
She was still in her sock-like bandages from two days prior, her legs propped in Peeta's lap. He'd been debating whether or not to trace gentle patterns onto her bare lower legs with his hands when she posed the question.
"I mean, for selling drinks…" She clarified. Peeta glanced up from where his hands rested on her legs.
It had been Katniss's idea, to sell drinks at the bakery. When Peeta had first designed the shop, he'd included plenty of room along one wall for tables and chairs, in case his patrons wanted to enjoy their treats right on the spot. Coffee – once a luxury – and tea, along with cold drinks, would be a nice complement to the baked goods.
"Oh yeah, the coffee machines came in last week – along with the coffee and tea." He told her. "Now I'm just waiting on the soda fountain." He added with a bright smile
He'd ordered the large coffee machine from the Capitol just a few days after Katniss's suggestion He spent quite some time calling around to find a company that actually manufactured and sold the devices. Peeta's standard supply catalog didn't have the option for ordering an industrial-sized coffee maker. It was an expensive item, but once the clerk on the other end of the line realized he was speaking with the Peeta Mellark, he gave Peeta a discount.
Peeta ordered several varieties of tea – black, green, chamomile, peppermint, lemon ginger – and coffee grounds by the pound. Theo helped him haul the boxes that arrived by train two or three weeks later back to the bakery. Peeta spent most of the morning trying to figure out how to set up the large machine, while Edda sorted through and organized the packages of tea and bags of coffee. Peeta was lucky that he had the married pair working for him – he didn't have the slightest clue how to brew coffee. It had been a rare treat, even though his parents were merchants, and as far as he could remember, he'd never really cared for it. But Edda and Theo had been cooks for the mayor of District 11, and had plenty of experience preparing coffee for him and his family.
Peeta laughed as he told Katniss about putting the machine together, trying to figure out where each part went, reading through the instructions three times before the appliance would even turn on.
"So the long and short of it is, you should stop by for a cup of coffee sometime." Peeta quipped as Katniss giggled good-naturedly.
In the midst of his animated narrative – in which he had used a fair amount of hand gestures – his hands had moved farther and farther up Katniss's legs. Her knees and calves were resting on top of his own legs, but he suddenly realized that his hands had ended up settling on her lower thigh. He was acutely aware of the fact that only a thin layer of cotton was separating him from direct contact with her skin. He felt his ears burn and his heart pound. Katniss had stopped giggling as well.
Slowly and as inconspicuously as possible, he slid his hands back down to her lower legs with the excuse of checking the bandages on her feet. They were holding up rather well, though Katniss had only walked as far as her bedroom in the past two days. It was a testament to Sae's cleaning skills that the bottoms of the white bandages were still fairly clean, even after constant contact with the wooden floor.
"I'm sorry…" He said as he inspected the dressings.
"What?" Katniss asked in a concerned tone, sitting more upright and leaning near him to look at her feet. "Is something wrong…?"
"Oh, no," Peeta replied, catching her gaze in his. "I was just saying sorry…for what happened. For everything…" His tone took on a somber note.
"Please quit apologizing," Katniss urged.
"But Katniss – " he started.
"No," she cut him off in a curt tone, folding her arms across her chest. "Don't say you're sorry again," she scowled. He could have laughed at how young she looked sitting there, her legs still propped in his lap, her demeanor that of a temperamental five year-old.
"Or what?" He teased, raising an eyebrow at her, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. Katniss frowned for a moment, but couldn't hold back a grin. She shoved at his shoulders playfully as she swung her legs around and planted her feet on the floor.
Peeta was quite relieved just two days later when Katniss showed him her bare feet – she'd cut the bandages off herself earlier that day – and he could see that the cuts had healed over nicely. She laughed and jerked her feet back, and he realized he must have inadvertently tickled her when he was studying her wounds. He smiled to himself.
He hadn't pressed his luck, hadn't attempted any overt affection since he had realized she had some kind of feelings for him - whatever they may be. There were times when her hand found his as they sat together, their bodies pressed close. He didn't say a word, but rather reveled in the feel of her fingers laced with his, her head resting on his shoulder.
He knew something had changed, that she did have feelings for him. But Peeta would let her decide how she would act on those feelings. And maybe they would never be more than close friends, neighbors. But Peeta had a hunch that the ever-increasing amount of time they spent together was leading to something.
When Katniss appeared in his bedroom in the middle of the night – nearly a week later – Peeta was quite bewildered.
He had been dreaming, dreaming that he and Katniss were being chased by mutts in the Capitol. They were running as fast as they could, but they couldn't outrun the terrible muttations – giant muscled creatures with deadly claws. The evil beasts caught up with Katniss first, and Peeta turned to fling himself in between, to protect her.
He woke with a start back in his house in the Victor's Village. But he wasn't alone. She was standing at the foot of his bed like some sort of otherworldly creature, her white nightgown billowing around her thin figure, her dark hair framing her face. Her features appeared pale in the dim light, her gray eyes wide and haunting. For a moment he was convinced that he was still dreaming or even having a flashback.
Real or not real – Katniss Everdeen is in my bedroom, right now, Peeta thought.
"Katniss…?" His voice was hoarse from sleep as he stared at her in disbelief. But then she moved, coming to stand on the side of his bed nearest to where he lay.
He rubbed his eyes, but she was still there, looking frightened and beautiful all at once. Her long, white gown was thin, and he could see the delicate shape of her curves. He cursed the place his mind went for a moment, but then worry took over. What was wrong? Why was she in his house in the middle of the night? Was there a fire, an intruder? Was she sick, hurting?
"I…" She started, her voice soft as she took a seat on the mattress. "I dreamt that you were…you were dying…"
So it was nightmare, Peeta thought. She placed her hand on his arm and he suddenly felt warm all over.
"What…?" He managed to ask. The Katniss that was sitting on his bed, and her arm stretched toward him was definitely real.
And she was saying something about coughing up blood, President Snow, a side effect. It took Peeta a moment to comprehend exactly what she meant. His thoughts weren't muddled by sleep, though. No, he was quite awake now, the feel of her fingers as they tightly gripped his arm the most exquisite vice.
He followed the long line of her legs, the arc of her hips all the way to where her nightgown ended and the olive skin of her neck began. In the shadows of his unlit bedroom, he couldn't quite make out the scars that marred her arms, but even if they had been visible, he would have still thought her perfect.
"It was just a dream," he reassured her, sitting up and moving closer to her. His eyes marked out a path from the hollow at the base of her throat to her eyes – wide in the dark. He could see the faint glint of tears forming. His left hand found her jaw and his fingers grazed the long, soft strands of hair that spilled over her shoulder. He tucked one lock gently behind her ear.
"Please don't cry," he half-whispered, his hand still resting along her jaw.
"It was so real, though," she explained frantically, fear and worry in her gaze. And Peeta knew he could relate. He could definitely understand how it felt to experience something so unsettling, so agonizing and not know if it was real or not.
"I had to make sure you were ok," she added, then averted her gaze. Those softly spoken words did something to Peeta's heart that was both sharp and thrilling.
He tried to tell her that he was ok, but she hung her head much like a scolded child. Finally, he wrapped his arms around her and she lifted her feet onto the bed. And like something he would have only imagined in the sweetest of dreams months ago, she lay down with him, her body curled into his as if she were made to fit right there next to him.
