A/N: Hello…? How is everyone recuperating after MJ? My god, that book hurts. This story is fluffy bunnies and kittens in comparison. This has become harder to write than it was before, but I do want to finish it. I think the characters deserve that and I don't want to let any of the readers down after you've been so encouraging.
Spoilers? Meh. I think we can safely say this story isn't remotely similar to MJ. If you're very concerned, just don't read it until you've read MJ, okay? However, be assured that this is the conclusion I intended to write.
Anyway, thank you to Lily for pointing out my medical blunder in the last chapter. Apparently, my viewing of House does not leave me qualified to dispense medical treatment.
Extra special thanks to Medea Smyke. Send her love, too. We fic authors need a boost.
Bandages
Plink! Plonk!
Plink! Plonk!
Plink! Miss.
The ball rolls across the room and under a cabinet. I sigh before I walk around the table to pick it up. My back is getting sore from bending over so much. "You're no good at this game," I mutter as I crouch on the floor to find the runaway ball.
"I'm in a wheelchair," Peeta says in his defense.
I slide my paddle under the cabinet so I don't have to stick my hand into the dust and cobwebs. The ball comes rolling out. I stand up and bounce it on my paddle a few times, enjoying the light sound the hollow ball makes. "Yes, well, I'm getting bored because you're no competition," I say in jest. All of this talk is just for fun. I'm aware Peeta is in a wheelchair and can't move as quickly as the game requires, and neither of us cares who wins and who loses. But one thing I know Peeta does not enjoy, just as much as being unable to walk, is being coddled. So I don't. At least in this instance. I bounce the ball again, showing off the skill I've already developed since we picked up the silly game, when the ball hits a pockmark in my paddle where some of the rubber has worn away, sending the ball flying in a different direction.
Peeta smirks at me. "You think you can back up that trash talk, Everdeen?" he teases.
I try to suppress the growing heat to my face as I retrieve the ball again. Once I have it in hand, I take my place at one end of the heavily indented green table, preparing to serve. The net sags in the middle and the two halves of the table don't meet up evenly, but we have all the pieces the game requires. I serve Peeta an easy lob to start off, but it's only fair, since Peeta is in a wheelchair.
Plink! Plonk!
Plink! Plonk!
Plink!
Suddenly, Peeta moves his chair back and turns, so his chair sits parallel to his end of the table. He winds his arm back, eyes the ball carefully, and smacks it hard over the net. It barely hits my side of the table before it zings past my hip. I have quick reflexes. I reach for it, but miss.
"Ha!" Peeta laughs in triumph.
"Nicely done," I commend him. "Now the score is 4-11."
His proud smile turns embarrassed. "Ouch," Peeta chuckles. His paddle clatters as he tosses it on the table, probably creating new marks. He does a quick turn around and rolls next to me. "Well, I distinctly remember beating you at a game of Force Field Toss."
I find the white ball in a dusty corner. I rest it in a dent in the table so it doesn't roll away again. "We need to come up with a better name for it."
"Capitol Apple Throw?" he muses.
"That's no good either."
"Anti-Suicide—"
I hold up my hands in protest. "Okay, just stop right there." I decide Force Field Toss works fine.
Peeta scoots up closer, stopping when his knees touch mine. He was given the wheelchair only two days ago. He was elated at first to be out of bed, but he's so impatient he's already asking Shell about walking. "Looks like you're getting the hang of it," I say.
"Yeah. Kind of," he replies indifferently. He's not going to be happy until he's out of the hospital wing entirely. He'll get there. It's simply going to take time.
"It's not so bad. At least you can get around. And if you keep going to therapy and exercising and then you'll be walking in no time," I say encouragingly. He doesn't like it when I patronize him either, but I don't want him to overexert himself just because he's impatient.
"You know, there is one thing about this wheelchair that I do like." His voice slurs in a dangerous way.
"What is that?"
In a move I would think was too quick for him, he grasps my hips, throwing me a bit off balance. With a tug, he forces me to fall in his direction, right into his lap. I brace myself on the armrests of his chair so I don't clobber him, but he keeps on shifting me closer, so that I'm sitting sideways in his lap, tucked in comfortably against his chest.
"Yeah, this is nice." He smiles warmly. I feel my cheeks go pink.
"Until you lose the feeling in your legs," I mutter.
Peeta nuzzles into the crook of my neck. I kind of squirm involuntarily. He feels it and places a kiss where my neck meets my shoulder. "Well, until then." Another kiss. Another squirm.
It's not that I dislike Peeta's affection, it's just…new. I realize I'm making a nonsensical statement when I think this. Peeta and I have been kissing in public for years, but before now, my heart wasn't part of it. I kept it out due to fear and confusion and feelings I had for another man, but things have changed. My heart belongs to Peeta now, and despite our involvement in the past, that is something new.
Peeta touches my face, guiding it down so he can see me. "Hey, you okay?"
I look away from his eyes like a coward. I want to cover my flushed cheeks. I play with the collar of his shirt. "Shell could walk in here any second."
"I'm not scared of Shell," he responds.
I keep touching his collar. There's a thread there and I pull on it, even though you're not supposed to pull on loose threads. I heard that many times from Hazelle. Peeta takes one of my fidgeting hands and interlaces our fingers.
"If you don't want me to kiss you, I won't," Peeta says softly.
The nerves get chased away by the surprise. "Why would you think that?"
Peeta moves his hips, adjusting the way I'm sitting in his lap. His legs are already going numb, but he won't admit it. "You seem a little…uncomfortable."
There's been an undeniable shift between us. When Peeta first got to Thirteen, it was just handholding, sitting together, and kisses good morning and goodnight. He could barely sit up so he couldn't handle much more than that. Since he's gotten stronger and become able to get out of bed on a regular basis, things have become progressively more…physical. Fingers on my hips and my waist. Lips not only on my lips. On my ear, my neck, my shoulders. It causes my skin to heat up, my heart to pound against my ribs, and there's that thing in my stomach that tingles and spins like a firecracker. New, new, new. It makes me feel out of control. The fact that I've come to crave the feeling unsettles me even more.
"I want you to kiss me," I whisper. Peeta squeezes my fingers. He's relieved. He's an eighteen year old boy. I prop my legs over the armrest of his chair and scoot down so I can tuck my head under his chin. It's better here. He can't see my red face and it's easier to talk about the things that are new. "It's just…overwhelming sometimes."
"What's overwhelming?"
"How much I…," I fumble. Okay, so it's not that much easier. "Feel for you."
"It overwhelms me, too."
"Then why aren't you blushing?"
"Because I've been overwhelmed since I was five years old. I've grown accustomed to the sensation."
"Are you okay with the fact that's it's new to me?" Peeta must feel like I'm a hundred years behind. He must be frustrated, maybe even resentful. I wish I could make myself catch up faster, but I'm stuck sliding along a learning curve.
Peeta lets go of my fingers. He folds his arms around me. This isn't new. This feels like nights on the train, nights before the Games. This is safe and warm and home.
"Yeah. It's okay with me." And I don't think I'll ever be able to predict the things that come from Peeta Mellark's mouth as long as I live.
We never did decide on a good name for that game.
One would think I would be more focused, that getting to Peeta would be the absolute only thing on my mind, and it is, in a way. I try to think of a plan. I think about how we're going to get a doctor from the Capitol to come to Thirteen or how we're going to figure out a treatment for Peeta or how I'm going to string up Haymitch by his neck. But before I can come up with a plan that will actually work, my mind drifts off to something else. Some random, silly moment. A hurried kiss. An irritated look. A prolonged touch. Ping pong matches and the precious conversations that follow.
"Katniss?"
I blink twice before I see that the elevator doors are open and everyone but me has emptied the lift. Gale holds his hand out for me. I take it because it's there. The underground compound is quiet and dark, but not as quiet or as dark as it was above ground where we landed. Why am I not running? Why am I not flinging myself at Peeta's door? I know where it is. I spent two months in that room.
"Hey," Gale says to get my attention. We're standing in the same place outside the elevator doors, only now it's only he and I. He should be with his family. He should be with Madge. She probably went to the hospital wing to have her injury checked out. That's where I should be. "Where's your head at, Catnip?"
"I don't think I can do this," I whisper wearily. "I can't watch him…"
Die. I can't watch him die. Again.
"You're his wife, right?"
I nod robotically. I feel like my head isn't attached to my body. When was the last time I slept?
"Then you're going to be a good wife to him. Stay beside him when he's sick. That's part of the vows, isn't it?"
I nod again. There was something about that. I try not to remember right now because if I do, I'll think of nothing else.
A blur of gray beneath my feet becomes the only thing my eyes can see. My legs move forward because Gale pulls on my arm. He takes me where I need to go; where I'm too scared to go on my own.
The door appears. I'm hit with a nauseating wave of déjà vu. It wasn't long ago that I was standing here with the knowledge that Peeta was on the other side of the door after six long months away from me. I didn't know if he was going to live or die. I reacted differently then. I rushed through the door without a second thought. I had spent so long waiting for him. I wasn't going to waste a moment being afraid.
Why am I standing here? Why am I so scared to go in that room?
Gale releases my hand. "Do you want me to go in with you?"
I shake my head, but I also don't move forward. I can't go in there without a plan. Peeta needs me to have a solution and I don't have one yet. I shouldn't have let myself get distracted with stupid things. Ping pong.
"If you don't go in you're going to regret it," Gale says wisely. And he's right because I already do. I regret leaving for the mission, even if it was a success. Gale touches my face, guiding my eyes to meet his. His hand is warm. It feels nice, but it's not the right touch. "Take it one step at a time, okay? He's going to be really happy to see you, and you're going to be happy to see him." He drops his hand. My eyes fall to the doorknob. I hear his soft footsteps as they quietly fade away, leaving me to do this on my own. But that's not right. I'm not on my own, not yet. I have Peeta.
He is my husband. I am his wife.
The lights are off except for one of the sconces on the wall. The first thing I see is him. Curled up on his side; sleeping as any normal person would be at this time of the night. The second thing I see is myself. I take up an entire wall of the room. Another wave of déjà vu hits my gut. Over a dozen pencil drawings line the wall across from the bed, but they're not the same as Peeta's paintings of the Games. The images aren't scary. There's no Clove or Cornucopia or knives or blood. There I am asleep in a mess of blankets. His hand holding mine. I'm smiling in these pictures. I'm happy.
I notice Prim sitting in the one uncomfortable chair the room provides. Her head lolls to the side, hair swaying gently as she exhales. Her late night vigil warms my heart. She's a better healer now than most doctors will ever be.
A touch to her shoulder rouses her like a cat. She sits up straight and turns her head toward the offending contact. Unlike a cat, her eyes take a second to focus on me. Her mouth drops open. "Katniss," she gasps.
"Hi, little duck."
"Oh! Katniss!" Prim hastily throws her arms around my neck. "Thank God you're safe."
I breathe her in. She smells like lilac perfume. I don't know where she got something like that down here. Then I grin, imaging Rory giving it to her as a gift. I revel in our embrace for a few more seconds. Sadly, her warmth loses its soothing comfort when I see Peeta's face over her shoulder. He looks…the same, almost. He's paler than before. He looks weaker, somehow? His hair hangs too long and has gotten smushed and tangled under the arm he uses as a pillow. Combined with the soft snores puffing from his mouth he's beautifully boyish.
Prim notices the stiffness of my embrace and lets me go. Her voice isn't jealous or offended. She understands. "He sleeps a lot. When he's awake he wants to know about you."
This does not surprise me. From the images on the wall behind me it's evident I've been in his thoughts. However, a pang of concern goes off within me when I think about his excessive sleeping and what might be haunting his thoughts as a consequence. Peeta had come to loathe sleeping. It reminded him of the perpetual unconsciousness they put him through in the Capitol and he struggled to keep his nightmares at bay. He was afraid I wouldn't be there when he woke up. "Does he have nightmares?" I ask, fearful of the answer.
"Um…," Prim hedges. "You should talk to him about that."
I don't know what she means, but my instinct tells me it's nothing good. "Do you mind?"
Again, Prim understands. "Of course not." She pushes up on her toes, not as far as she used to need to, and kisses me on the cheek. "I'm so happy you're here." She steps out without a sound. I only know by the click of the door when it shuts.
It's just me, him, and the cold room we've come to know so well.
I'm frozen. I don't know what to do. If he weren't sick, I'd wake him up. I'd kiss him and I wouldn't stop until we needed to breathe. But this isn't the scene I thought I would come back to. Peeta is sick. Sick in a way I cannot heal. So I stand here.
What did Gale say? One step at a time. I follow his instructions and take a single step, then another, until my body reaches the edge of the bed and I can take no more. Peeta's breaths are shallow and slow. In my sleep-deprived state it lulls me into an even drowsier condition. I consider taking a seat in the chair Prim vacated, but that's not where I want to be, and come to think of it, that's not where Peeta would want me to be. He asked me every single night we had together if I would stay with him. Why did I ever say no?
I'm very careful as I sit on the edge of the bed. I bring one leg up, then the other. There isn't much room for me and I have the sensation that I'm about to teeter off the bed. I gingerly turn onto my side; moving closer to Peeta, but not disrupting him. One step at a time. Until my nose is next to his and I can feel his warm breath fan my face. It's so different now than it was that day we played ping pong in the recreation room. My head may be afraid, but my body has no apprehension about being this close to him.
"I missed you," I whisper. I'm terrified of waking him while secretly I want to.
Why the drawings? I want to ask. Were you afraid you'd never see me again? Were you afraid I wouldn't come back? Or were you afraid you would die before I did?
The plan I should have thought of suddenly unfolds before me. I delicately pick up his arm and place it at my waist. I tuck my leg in between his to help me from falling off the bed, and to be closer to him. I can do the one thing for Peeta that he wants above everything else. I'll be here when he wakes up.
Something familiar touches my cheek. Soft. Warm. So warm. It moves to my chin. It brushes over my collar bone. It's warm against my neck. It tickles under my ear and I squirm. The warm laughs. "Are you awake?" it asks.
I blink and he's there above me. I'm on my back and his arms are under my arms. His fingers touch my hair. His nose mere inches from my nose. He looks so much lighter than he did last night. I try not to let it fool me. My brain tells me the truth. It's my heart that talks. "Hi." My heart is not as smart as my brain.
Peeta's smile couldn't be any bigger, splitting his face in half. "You're here," he murmurs in disbelief. His heart talks, too.
A scratch to the side of my head is followed by a kiss on my nose.
"I said I was coming back, didn't I?" I tease. I know my heart is still talking because my brain wouldn't tease him right now. My brain would still be coming up with a plan. My brain would try to fix what is damaged.
"You're really here," he repeats, ignoring my teasing. His heart doesn't care if I tease him. A kiss on my forehead. His lips linger there. "I knew you'd come back."
My heart has no words. It never knows the right things to say anyway. My hands are better at talking. I place them on either side of his face and pull his mouth to cover mine. Any fear I have is forgotten. Nothing but safety exists here in Peeta's arms. Ultimately, that's why I crave his touch. My brain tells me not to lose myself in the luxury of that security because it knows I may lose it very soon. I push the thoughts aside. I tell my brain it is wrong. This may not fix everything, but it fixes something.
Peeta leans away from me. My lips follow blindly and he laughs again. He lies on his side and I roll over onto mine. He lets my head rest against his arm. "I missed you," he says barely above a whisper.
I lift my head up and glance at the drawings scattered on the wall. They're still there. They weren't a figment of imagination or sleep deprivation. "I can tell," I muse. It keeps his smile there.
"I wanted you to know I was thinking about you."
And I can't make fun of him for that. Not ever. "I was thinking of you, too." I place a brief kiss on his parted lips. It wasn't meant to be brief, but Peeta makes it that way.
"Was it a success?"
My head clouds up too much to understand. "What?"
"The mission? Were you successful?" he asks again.
Oh. How Peeta manages to think of such things is beyond me. Perhaps it's because he spent those days we were apart without any knowledge about what was happening and I spent those days living it, and now I wish I could forget it. "Yes," I respond quietly. Peeta sighs in relief, but my reaction to this news couldn't be more different. Yes, we succeeded. Annie is safe and the hospital is gone, as are the thousands of people that were inside. I'm able to push back the guilt for the time being. Peeta needs me and I won't be any help to him if I'm wallowing in guilt. "Annie is here. Madge was injured, but she's going to be fine," I finish. That's all he needs to know. That's all I want to say.
Peeta senses this. He doesn't push for more. "Good," he says. Despite all my guilt, I'm reminded some goodness exists in our sad, twisted plan. By causing such damage to the Capitol forces we earned freedom for the whole of Panem. That's why we did it. That's why Gale wouldn't let me risk the success of the mission for Peeta's sake. Peeta looks at me, his eyes so full of hope, and a surge of guilt floods over me for a different reason. I succeeded in the mission, but I failed him.
I feel my face flushing red; my eyes start to burn. I bury my face into his neck because that is the safest place I know. These are tears that I've been afraid to cry because they mean too much. They mean accepting defeat. "Peeta…," I whimper against his skin.
"Oh, hey. Katniss, don't cry," he says tenderly, but then he dares to laugh again. Does he think I'm just being overly emotional?
"Peeta…I'm so sorry," I sob.
"What are you sorry for?"
And then it all comes out. The things my brain says. "I tried to get Dr. Holden to come with. I tried to convince them, but they wouldn't listen. Gale said it was our one chance, I tried…I tried…"
Suddenly, Peeta holds me tighter because he knows I know the truth about his condition. I feel the heavy gulp in his throat. "Shhh. Don't cry," he attempts to soothe. His voice gets stuck and he stumbles. He speaks between kisses to the top of my head. "I'm okay. I'm fine."
I shake my head at his lie. He's not allowed to do that. Peeta doesn't lie to me.
"How did you know?" he questions.
If I hadn't mentioned my attempt at convincing Madge and Gale to help him, he would have assumed Prim or my mother told me. This also means he doesn't know we were contacted while on assignment. We were never supposed to be contacted. "Haymitch called me while we were in the Capitol."
"He called you?" Peeta exclaims. "Wow. He must have felt really guilty."
"What does he have to feel guilty about?" Other than sending me away while my husband was terribly ill? This bothers me, but I'm not sure it would bother Haymitch enough to call when it was so dangerous.
"It's not important," Peeta deflects.
I sniffle into his neck and he must think it disgusting. I wish this didn't keep happening over and over again; me crying over things that are hurting him more than they are me. I don't want to show this weakness to Peeta, not when he needs me to be strong. "Are you in a lot of pain?"
Peeta leans back further so he can see my face. He starts swiping at the tears, even using the end of his sleeve to wipe my nose. "I don't want to talk about this," he says flatly.
Denial. It's Peeta's favorite emotional defense. That and outright altruism.
Peeta pushes my hair away from my face. It must look like a haystack at this point as most of it has fallen out of my braid. Peeta's hair sticks up on one side so I do him a favor and pat it down. "I told your mother about us," he says abruptly.
Without any explanation, I know what he told her because there's only one important secret we're keeping from her. I'm surprised at the relief I feel. I should be angry or something, since I made such a big deal over not telling anyone. But there's nothing in me that cares. The concern has been eclipsed by much bigger issues.
"She…um…," Peeta begins sheepishly. I can't for the life of me imagine why. "Discovered the contents of that drawer." He gestures to the nightstand behind me with a flick of his head.
Contents of the drawer? All that's in there are candles, matches, and…oh. "Oh my…," I gasp.
"Yeah," Peeta laughs, but clearly he doesn't think it's funny. "Thought she should know so she didn't murder me."
Now I'm doubly glad I wasn't here for the big reveal. As a healer my mother was inclined to have…talks with me, but they were basically clinical, and I was so convinced that it would never happen at the time. How are Peeta and I ever going to look my mother in the face?
Peeta reads my silence as something it's not. "Are you mad?" he asks.
"No, of course not," I assure him. Just mortified. "Gale knows. And Madge. Haymitch, too." And Annie and Dr. Holden, not that Peeta knows either of those people. I've gone back on my word more than Peeta has.
"That's fine. Prim is happy for us."
"No surprise there. I think she set us up."
"With the bread? Yeah, that girl is meant for espionage. Trust me."
We both laugh. Peeta rolls us over so he's on his back and I'm tucked comfortably into his side. I'll move when his arm goes numb, though he rarely tells me when that happens. We settle into the quiet as it seems we've run out of things to talk about. I don't want to go into more detail about the mission, and Peeta doesn't want to go into more detail about his illness. Things we need to talk about. Things emotionally well-adjusted people would talk about. Instead, we lie here, holding one another, feeling content with listening to the pattern of our steady breathing.
I take a closer observation of the drawings. One depicts two stubby candles and a loaf of bread. Even if Peeta didn't tell my mother about our toasting that drawing would have been a big clue. There's an image of me sitting at a table in the dining hall, picking at a sad pile of cold green beans. I remember complaining about how all the food in Thirteen tastes bland. Peeta decided that none of it is actually grown; it's all extruded from some kind of machine and painted different colors. Why make a drawing of that? It was such a silly conversation—silly like ping pong.
The drawings turn blurry. I close my eyes to keep from being overwhelmed, but sadly it doesn't work. Peeta's shirt will be stained with new tears.
"Katniss?" he whispers over the top of my head.
"Hm?" I hum back, my voice too shaky to speak.
"The war is going to be over soon, right? We're just waiting for their surrender?"
I nod into his chest. I fight the urge to suck in a sudden breath.
"Don't leave me again, please," he requests.
I hold him tighter. I hold him better than I ever have. My hold on him tells him everything he needs to know. I can't open my mouth because if I do my brain and my heart will say the same thing. Don't leave me again, Peeta.
Prim wasn't kidding when she said Peeta sleeps a lot. We had breakfast brought in for us, and not long after that Peeta fell asleep again. I'd like to think it's because I was there to comfort him, but I'm afraid I'm fooling myself when I think that. It was the stiffness in my back that forced me to get out of bed, and it was my interest in not disturbing Peeta's slumber that drove me into the hallway, after a much-needed shower and change of clothes. I smelled like the cargo hold of a hovercraft, and although it wasn't carrying cabbages, for some reason I smelled like one.
The energy of Thirteen feels more solemn than it had before the mission, and it was never all that cheery to begin with. People generally pass me by without a glance. I can't say if it's out of respect for what's happening to Peeta or if they're just tense about the surrender that has not come yet. Haymitch didn't expect it to be immediate. He's more worried about strikes against the other districts.
Not very far from Peeta's room I notice someone I don't typically see in the hospital wing. Our encounters have always been in the training or conference rooms, but his unkempt, dark hair in unmistakable. Gale paces back and forth in front of a closed door, tugging at his hair now and again, and keeping his eyes on the floor. Even if I wasn't Gale's best friend, I'd be able to figure out what's going on.
I stop directly in his path. Gale gets a good look at my shoes before he looks up.
"Have you talked to her yet?" I ask without giving him a chance to deny his purpose for being here.
Gale takes a visible gulp and looks to the closed door. "I don't know what to say."
"I think a thank you might be in order."
"Wing is in there with her." He shrugs.
"Oh." I feel uncomfortable standing outside Madge's room with Gale—like I'm infringing on her privacy even through closed doors. And really, haven't I interfered in her life enough? I take Gale's arm and pull him down the hall a ways and sit us in a small waiting area outside some exam rooms. Gale immediately leans his elbows onto his knees and puts his fist at his mouth.
I don't know what Gale feels toward Madge for certain, as the only positive thing he's ever said about Madge is that it's obvious she's amazing. And he was piggybacking on someone else's comment when he said that. If Gale wants to do anything about that opinion, he needs to know exactly what he's dealing with, specifically, the man who originally made the compliment. "Wing is in love with her. You know that, right?" I ask, none too sensitively.
Gale's keeps a blank expression. "I know."
"Do you have feelings for her?" Again, getting straight to the point.
"No. Of course not," he scoffs dramatically. He sits back in his chair and folds his arms defensively, adding to the drama. "We can't even have a conversation without fighting."
"Have you ever tried?"
Gale rolls his eyes at me. "I don't have…she bugs the hell out of me," he stammers.
How long is he going to use that excuse? Does he think I didn't see what went on between the two of them in the Capitol?
"Then she goes and gets herself shot. She could have died," Gale grounds out, becoming increasingly agitated.
My turn to roll my eyes. Yes, it was a significant injury, but she was never in danger of dying, especially with Dr. Holden there. "She was shot in the arm," I point out.
"Had she been a half a second slower…"
I look to him to finish his sentence, but he doesn't. He leans forward again and palms both of his eyes. Is he actually mad at Madge for saving his life? Gale isn't used to being the one who is saved. He's the one who does the saving. But there's something else that misdirects his anger. If he had been pushed out of the way of that bullet by Garrett, for example, Gale would thank him, but he'd be rational enough to understand that Garrett's life was never hanging in the balance. Put Madge in there as the wounded one and suddenly Gale is thinking up all these scenarios where Madge is in greater danger than she is. Why would he think that way? Even if I take Gale at his word and believe he doesn't have feelings for Madge, the only reason he would be so irrational is the same reason I'm worried about Peeta: He's scared.
I slide my hand down his back, resting my chin over his shoulder, even with an armrest in between us. "She's fine," I tell him. Gale lets his hands fall from his eyes, hanging his head between his shoulders. "I'm sure she's glad you were there to take care of her."
Gale shakes his head. He frowns. "She doesn't give a damn about me."
"That's not true. She cares a lot about what you think." Maybe too much. "She cares about you."
"She wasn't thinking when she did that. When she pushed me," he explains.
Now he's reduced Madge's grandiose gesture to a kneejerk reaction? Madge and Gale couldn't possibly be more off base with one another. I sit back and fold my arms. So much for not interfering.
"Then she wasn't thinking when she brought you morphling after you were whipped either?"
Gale blinks at me as he puts the puzzle together in his very, very thick head. "She…what?"
"You need to talk to her, and I don't mean banter or bicker with her, I mean talk to her. Ask her why she fights with you. Tell her what you actually think about her. Be honest for God's sake," I advise. Gale may be older, but I know this better than he does. "You never know when you might run out of time."
And because Gale is a good friend, my best friend, he asks. "He's not any better?"
I shake my head. I can feel my face flush again, so I change the subject. I haven't been able to talk to anyone about the results of the mission yet. "What's happening in the Capitol?"
"It's a mess," he replies, the agitation returns to his voice. "Their forces are trying to clean up the hospital grounds, but there's also rioting going on." The fears I developed after hearing the truth about the Capitol from Dr. Holden are confirmed. The criminals and the desperate people of the ghettos are taking advantage of the disaster. The Capitol is tearing itself apart. "There isn't anything the spies can do until Snow surrenders. They just have to watch it happen."
I try to remind myself that this was the point in us going. This is the result we expected and desired, but it doesn't help. All I can see is that stupid woman with the straw-like hair and broken pink fingernails trapped under a mountain of debris. Her and a thousand other nameless faces. "How are you dealing with it?" I ask quietly, staring blankly toward an exam room door.
"They had a shrink come talk to me for a while. I didn't know what he wanted me to tell him."
"Oh," I sigh. Perhaps Gale has better sense and can cope with this better than I can. He can separate his emotions from the outcome and the part we played in it. He is the revolutionary after all. Our victory is the thing he wants most. "Gale, I'm sorry I asked you to stay in the hospital." Instantly, I feel the need to take that back. I'm actually sorry I didn't kidnap a doctor on the way out. "That's a lie. I'm not sorry, I just—"
"I get it," he interrupts.
At least he forgives me for my betrayal to the cause. Though I wasn't successful, so I guess I didn't betray it after all.
I decide I should go back and see Peeta. He might be awake by now, and I don't want to risk not being there. I'm about to stand up when Gale suddenly speaks up.
"Madge was wrong."
"What?"
"When she said we were just doing a job, she was wrong. Killing someone…how do you…?" Gale's eyes shift to mine, searching for an answer to an unfinished question. He's asking me how I cope with murdering someone, since I'm the one who has committed that act. This is a first for Gale. I'm too slow in providing an answer, so Gale quickly mutters, "Never mind."
I put my hand back on his shoulder, letting him know it's okay for his soldier façade to come down, especially with me. "Sometimes I rationalize it. Like in the Games, it was the only choice I had. You had no choice but to take action against that Peacekeeper. He would have alerted everyone to our whereabouts. He would have killed us." I rattle off the reasons I'm certain Gale has already considered. He adds some more.
"I despise the Capitol. They put you in the Games. They destroyed our home." Gale's Adam's apple bobs. His shoulder becomes stiff under my hand. He keeps his eyes on the pile of ratted magazines on a coffee table in front of us. There's a picture of stream a and lush foliage on the cover. I think Gale and I desire to live that image as much as the citizens of Thirteen do.
"There was a woman on the elevator with us while we were going down to the basement level. She had this wild lime green hair and a dress covered in purple feathers." Gale waves his hand down his body as if he's the one wearing the purple dress. His lips are entertained by the fantastical image he has in his head. "She had these kids with her, two twin boys and a girl. She looked to be around seven or eight. The girl kept asking if she was going to get a shot and saying how she was scared. And the woman? She kept on promising the girl lollipops. That girl wasn't wearing a green wig and feathers. She was just a little girl."
Gale didn't see a mom with two twin boys and a girl. He saw Hazelle and Rory and Vick and Posy. Thinking back on it now, if there was any girl that was meant for Gale, it's Posy. He adores his sister, and she thinks he's made of stardust and moon beams. Posy is the only person Gale would let think something like that.
I wish Gale were saying this to the shrink and not me, because I'm certain the psychologist would be more qualified to help him than I am. But Gale can't talk like this to people he doesn't trust; that goes against his very nature. So I keep quiet and listen. The fact that he's saying the words out loud, to anyone, is an important step.
"After seeing the pictures and recordings," he murmurs sadly. I assume he's talking about pictures of the hospital aftermath. I haven't seen any. And we didn't see anything from the hovercraft. We were well out of the Capitol before the detonation took place. It was a very strange moment for all of us, knowing something so loud and violent was happening while we only heard the hum of the hovercraft.
"The greater good? Does it really justify it? We're like them." Gale says, moving his hand to cover his eyes. And today is the day that Gale Hawthorne feels compassion for the Capitol. He personally experienced the bombing in Twelve. He saw the people of our district die, but to be responsible for it is a different experience. And he feels it.
"It's not something you get over," I confess. Relatively speaking, very little time has passed between the moment I was reaped and now, but when I look at figures like Haymitch and Annie, I don't have much hope of recovery. "Peeta helps me. He reminds me of the good I still have in me, and of the good we can accomplish together."
"I want that," Gale whispers. And I can't believe it. Gale, the strongest, more self-reliant person I have ever known, the man who protected his family from starvation, outran a fire-bombing, and rose to the highest ranks of the rebellion, admits his weakness. No. Not weakness. His humanity. His need for comfort and healing. I'm sorry I can't be the person to provide it, but I desperately want there to be someone who can.
"Do you really think Madge is amazing?"
Gale hesitates, biting his lip. He's already admitted to it, so I know he's not hesitating to agree. By answering my question, he's committing himself down a different path—away from me, someone who was always a hopeless cause for him—and toward someone he might have a future with. I'm proud of him for taking the question seriously. If he's going to pursue Madge, she deserves his full attention. After nearly a minute passes, he finally nods.
"Then you have to tell her that. Every day."
Gale nods again, taking my instruction decisively. He pauses for a second to relax, takes a breath, and psyches himself up for…well, what I can only guess will be an interesting conversation. I follow behind him as he approaches Madge's door, but I stay a few feet away and lean against the wall so Madge won't see me. Maybe she'll think he came to this conclusion on his own. It can only help. A few quick raps to her door. It opens. And Gale and I are idiots because of course it's Wing who answers, not Madge. We even knew he was in there.
"Wild Man," Wing says in a friendly way, but not in an exactly welcoming manner. His use of the nickname proves that.
"I wanted to speak to Madge, alone, if that's alright with her," Gale requests.
I sigh in relief. Thank God for tactful moments which occur so rarely when men are involved. Madge must have said yes because Wing steps aside, allowing Gale access.
"I'll see if I can find that deck of cards for you, okay Ace?" Wing says before he closes the door. He stands there for a few seconds, a definite look of distaste crossing his features. It doesn't fit his usual good-humored demeanor and I'm suddenly filled with remorse for a different reason. I pushed Gale to put his heart on the line after Wing had already done so. I silently vow to never be involved in someone else's love triangle ever again.
Wing starts walking in my direction. He smiles when he sees me and I struggle to return it. I wish I could melt into the wall.
"Hey, Little Bird. I'm going to see if I can find a deck of cards for Madge," he repeats to me.
"That's sweet of you, Wing." Because it is.
"Maybe we could all play a game with Peeta later on? If he's feeling up to it?" he proposes.
More sweet. It feeds the guilt in my stomach. "Peeta would like that. I think he'd even be good competition for Madge."
"He'd be the first," he grins.
I don't know if there is a subtext behind the words Wing chooses, as if he's inferring that there's also no competition for Madge's heart. He may know better than me. Gale and Madge might be too far gone to repair the damage to their tenuous relationship. They'll be lucky to be friends at the end of it, not that they were ever friends to begin with. I'm left considering this, wondering which path Madge will choose. One side tips the scales significantly, until I catch the glint of Wing's silver ring on his finger as he walks by.
It only took Prim a few nights of sitting in Peeta's uncomfortable guest chair before she requested something more comfy. And it only took an hour before a well-used, but soft, horseshoe shaped chair was delivered to Peeta's room. I should be more concerned about the influence Prim possesses around here, but the chair is such a nice change, I can't bring myself to care.
In the early afternoon, I have my legs tucked underneath me as I sit in the chair while looking at books Prim must have brought in from Thirteen's substantial library. One appears to be a textbook, a very old one at that. I mostly look at the pictures because I can't wrap my head around what the text says. There's so much prosperity in the images, not just one Capitol, but hundreds. Although, every few chapters, the prosperity falls to ruin after what I assume are wars or natural disasters. I have no knowledge of any of these events, and the book feels more like a fairy tale than history.
"You're bored," Peeta says from his bed. He has a drawing board and a fresh sheet of paper on his lap.
"I'm not bored," I insist. I spend a lot of time in Peeta's room, forgoing the meetings with Haymitch and Plutarch or the training sessions with the army in preparation for the surrender. There are things I want to know, but my place is here. I made a promise.
"You are. I can tell."
I'm not really bored. Sure, I can get a little stir crazy during one of Peeta's many naps, but when he's awake I'm the furthest thing from bored, for the most part. Peeta's drawing board tips a little and I see that although he's had new paper for twenty minutes now, he hasn't drawn a single stroke. "Peeta, are you trying to say that you're bored?" I inquire.
"Maybe a little," he shrugs.
"Oh my goodness! Alert the masses!" I pretend to shout. "Peeta Mellark has finally bored himself of drawing pictures of Katniss! I never thought this day would come." I lean my chin on my palm and grin at him.
Peeta rolls his eyes. "I'm not bored with drawing you. Being trapped in this room doesn't give me much inspiration."
When I look over Peeta's previous drawings hanging on the wall I note that most of them depict us actually doing things, not just laying around, which is all Peeta's been able to do. However, I do take him around in his wheelchair twice a day. He has another trip planned today, but that won't be for another hour. "You're not going to trick me into walking you around outside of your schedule," I inform him. He needs to take more tips from Prim if he wants to be truly persuasive.
"Come on, Katniss. Be a rebel," he taunts.
"No," I state before I turn back to my book. I observe a picture of a statue of a green woman holding fire. Huh.
Peeta groans like a child, and luckily for him, I'm more amused by it than I am annoyed.
"Then you have to give me something to draw," he persists.
"Like what?"
Peeta thinks for a moment. I look up from my book. He's staring at me with a heart melting smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Tell me about your dreams."
"My dreams?" I'm taken aback. My dreams are generally something I don't like to talk about, especially when they involve my face being gnawed on by rats. Peeta reads my disgust.
"Not your bad dreams," Peeta explains. "Your hopes, your goals, your aspirations."
My eyes drop back down to the open pages of the book. This is worse than talking about my nightmares. He can't honestly want me to talk about the future. "Peeta…," I whisper, but find myself unable to continue. I don't even want to consider it.
"Remember when you asked me what I thought our future would have been like had you actually been in love with me after the Games?"
"Yes, I remember," I respond, very quickly regretting ever asking the question.
"Well, I want to know the answer to the same question. Only the timeframe is now and you actually love me."
"Most days," I grumble. It's moments like this when I seriously reconsider.
I don't want to do this. I don't think I can. How can I talk about the future that I want with Peeta when I know…when he knows it's…not…
I snap my book shut, trying to keep calm, but my frantic voice betrays me. "Why don't I find us a game or something? They must have something other than chess." I stand up from the chair, but it's been placed so close to Peeta's bed he snags my wrist before I can walk away. I know Peeta is physically too weak to hold me back, but he doesn't need physical strength to keep me tied to him.
"Katniss, please? This is what I want," he pleads gently, stroking my wrist with his thumb.
I'm afraid of how much this conversation could hurt us both. I hope that if Peeta can endure it, I can too. I take a few seconds to calm my voice and relax the tightening muscles in my chest and throat. I sit in the chair again, taking my hand back. I set the book aside on the nightstand. Peeta knows I'm stalling, but he doesn't press on. He waits patiently while I come up with an answer.
I surprise myself when I realize, I don't think I have one. Peeta was my future, that was certain, but actually getting him to me and staying alive was such an effort I never thought about the specifics that came with a future. Peeta always had, even when our feelings weren't mutual. So, what exactly do I want with Peeta? "Um…," I start off ever so eloquently. "A house."
"What kind of house?" he replies.
"A small one."
"You're going to have to be a bit more specific." He taps his paper with a pencil.
"Not as large as our mansions in Victor's Village, but bigger than the shacks in the Seam. A cabin, maybe?" I say in a small voice, not at all certain. This is the first time I've ever given these thoughts any sort of concrete imagery. It's still hazy.
"In the woods?" Peeta asks.
"Well, I prefer solitude. I don't know if you could handle it, being a merchant and everything," I tease. It doesn't throw him off the question.
"I don't mind solitude with you." His smirk is absolutely evil and my cheeks turn red for a different reason. "What else is in our house?"
"Basic things." The picture sharpens into solid colors and shapes. The house is an expansion of my house in the Seam, as that is the place I associate most with home, but everything is cleaner, brighter. There are a few amenities that Peeta would want, like a shower, because of his slightly privileged upbringing, but for the most part it's simple. I start naming off the furniture I see. "A stove, a kitchen table, a sink, a dresser—"
"A bed?" Peeta interrupts.
I just roll my eyes at him. Obviously.
"Yeah. A nice, big bed. One much better than this one," Peeta comments as he shifts around. I can't imagine how sore his back must be by now. "What else?"
Peeta's excited for another answer, but after thinking about his sore back, the stream of thoughts abruptly stop. "I don't know. This is stupid," I snap. "I mean, who knows what kind of place we'll live in or where or if any district will even be habitable at the end of this." Or if you'll even be there.
"I don't want you to think about that. These are dreams we're talking, fantasies," Peeta reiterates. "What do you want to see?"
I don't want to disappoint him by telling him my brain doesn't work the way his does. I don't think in terms of fantasies and dreams. I haven't since my father died. I try to see the fuzzy painting my brain was beginning to form. There's a cabin, in the forest; it's rustic, but comfortable. Although it's not clear, I think I'm in love with it. "Well, I guess I wouldn't mind a porch with a swing," I muse. Suddenly, the idea becomes sketched into the picture in my mind. I fall in love a little bit more. "Where we could watch the sunset."
Peeta sighs. He holds his hand out over the edge of the bed. Once I've placed my hand in his he leans forward and kisses my knuckles several times. "That's a good dream," he murmurs in between kisses. "I like this game. Tell me more." He leans back again. I reluctantly let him go.
"I can't think of anything else," I confess with a shake of my head. I'm not as good at this game as he is.
"Kids?" he suggests.
I laugh, recognizing that this was a conversation we should have had before we were married. Peeta and I can't seem to do much of anything in order.
My fingers twitch as a new blurry image bounces into my head. A baby. One that's Peeta's and mine. I should be keyed up by the prospect of a baby, right? However, after spending so many years positive I would never have children, a baby kind of goes against the grain of my sensibilities. I also recall the rush of emotion I felt during that night Peeta and I were together, when a baby suddenly didn't feel like a burden, it felt like a gift we could share as husband and wife. I'm more rational in the fluorescent light of day, but I can't dismiss that feeling. All I can say is, "Maybe."
"I'd like that." Peeta actually has to bite his lip to keep from smiling like an idiot. He still looks like an idiot.
"I know you would," I scoff. Peeta probably dreams of scads of children. Why wouldn't he when he doesn't have to be the one to push them out? Men.
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
"You already knocked me up with one imaginary baby. You want another one?" I mean it as a joke, but when Peeta's face loses its excitement, I regret it. He doesn't want this to be a joke. He doesn't want to only see his own vision of what our future could be; he wants a shared vision. "I think I'd be better with a boy, don't you?" I add without the sarcastic tone. "I could teach him to hunt."
Peeta smiles a little, but it's not as big as before. "You could do that with a girl, too."
"Unless she's like Prim and can't stand to swat a fly," I say.
Peeta's smile widens; the damaging effects of my sarcastic comment forgotten. His eyes drift off toward the drawings. His smile keeps growing. I can see everything he's thinking on his face.
"You want a girl," I deduce.
"Doesn't matter." He shrugs. "But to have my own little version of you sounds…nice."
"You shouldn't have a girl. She'd be the most spoiled thing ever. She'd have you wrapped around her finger so quick." The vision is especially clear to me in this detail. Even without knowing her face I can see her done up in dresses and ribbons surrounded by toys. How we got them in a cabin in the woods, I can't say.
"Like the way I'm wrapped around your finger?"
"You never do anything I say," I huff. I'm exaggerating, but I have examples.
"Doesn't mean I'm not wrapped around your finger," he confirms. He picks up his drawing board and still clean piece of paper and sets it on the ground beside his bed. He turns on his side and silently beckons me to move closer. I scoot to the edge of my seat, leaning my elbows and my head onto his mattress. Peeta cups my cheek with one hand, skimming my lips with his thumb. "You'll be such a good mother," he whispers.
The way he phrases it pulls me out of the fantasy theme of our talk. I feel a tightness in my throat again. The same one as before that told me not to start this conversation in the first place. Peeta says I'll be a good mother like it's certain that I'm going to be a mother one day, but that doesn't work. Peeta and I both know what's happening to him, what won't happen for us. Suddenly the girl, the cabin, and the porch swing all disappear. My future returns to a hazy void.
"And you'll be a good father," I whisper back. I don't know what makes me say it or who I'm trying to convince. But no vision exists when Peeta isn't there. I want that vision back. "You'll be the best father." He doesn't disagree. For once, I'm thankful to be lied to.
"Peeta! Wake up! Please!" I scream. He doesn't normally thrash around when he has a nightmare. In fact, I wouldn't know he had any if he didn't tell me himself. But here he is, squeezing his eyes shut and whipping his body back and forth across the bed, breathing like he can't get air into his lungs.
And he won't wake up.
"Peeta! Wake up," I beg, my voice cracking with panic. "Please, Peeta!" I shake his shoulder. It does nothing. I try to touch his face, covered in sweat, but he jerks away from me. He moans something about putting out the fire under his skin.
"Help! Someone help me!" I scream at the door. No one comes. It's very late and sometimes the people who are supposed to be working fall asleep at the on call desk. I need to find someone, but I'm terrified to leave him alone while he's trapped in his head with the monsters. "Peeta," I plead once more with another useless shake.
I search around the room for some kind of solution. There's nothing different from the way it's sat for months, except for a pitcher of water leftover from dinner. I pluck it from the nightstand and throw the contents over his face. Peeta abruptly stops thrashing. His eyes blink open in confusion while his breath continues to rush out in heavy pants. I thrust one hand under his neck and hoist him up a little. I cup the side of his face with my free hand.
"Peeta?" I ask, hoping it will help him come back to me. How could Peeta stand to do this night after night for me?
Peeta's eyes dart up and down my face several times. Then he rips his body from my grip, letting his head fall over the side of the bed, and empties the sick from his stomach.
I never thought I'd hold a gun in my hands again so soon.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The target resets with a new paper outline of a human figure.
"Nice shot," someone says over my shoulder.
The voice is muffled by my ear protection. I safely set the gun down on the counter before I turn around. Finnick stands behind me, looking so much like his old self I nearly cringe at his beauty.
"Then again, you were always a good shot," he adds.
I turn back around and start the process of exchanging my empty magazine for a new one. I'd rather shoot with a bow, but Thirteen doesn't have any use for archery training. "What are you doing down here?" I question. What business does Finnick have in the training areas? He has no mission to prepare for.
"Heard you had a rough night," Finnick says.
Great. New fodder for the gossip chain. As if chatting about my love life wasn't enough. I lift up my reloaded gun and take out another immobile target.
"We haven't had a chance to talk yet," Finnick says after the paper drawing is sufficiently dead. "I was hoping we could do that now."
A new target.
"I'm busy."
"Really? You'd rather be doing this?" he says warily.
"This is where they sent me." That's not entirely true. I mean, I could have gone anywhere I wanted, they just suggested I go somewhere I could clear my head. Not having a forest or animals to hunt I'm left with target practice.
Finnick nudges himself inside the walls of my little booth, not standing in front of me, but standing where I can't ignore him. "Come on. I'll get you a cup of coffee."
Really? That's the best line I can earn from Finnick Odair these days?
"Do you like sugar in your coffee?" He leers.
And there it is.
I remove the earmuffs and set them beside the gun. Upon closer inspection I see that Finnick's hair has been trimmed, adding to the overall improvement to his good looks. I wonder if it was Annie who cut his hair. He must really love her if he trusts her with a pair of scissors in her hand.
Silently, Finnick leads me away from the shooting range and out of the training level. He's remarkably patient with me and doesn't talk until we're in the dining hall sitting across from one another at a table. It's getting close to lunchtime and people are beginning to trickle in. There's a stench of garlic in the air and I feel it sticking to my clothes.
"Why did they send you out?" he asks after taking a sip from his paper cup.
"They wanted to try some procedure. My mother thought it would be easier if I wasn't in the room."
"Because it's painful?" he asks.
I pick up my cup of coffee and take a sip. I burn my mouth, but it hurts less than the answer to Finnick's question. "How is Annie?" I ask.
"She's getting better. She wasn't as heavily medicated as she's been in the past, thankfully. She'll get through it." Finnick fights a smile because he knows I won't smile back. "It's incredible to have her with me again. I almost can't believe it."
I remember that feeling. I didn't have it when I came back to Thirteen.
"Thank you, Katniss," he says quietly, but genuinely. There's no trace of that Odair snark and charm he's so well known for. However, now that I think about it, other than the sugar comment I haven't heard him talk like that since the Games. The fact that the charm has returned, even in small amounts, shows how vital Annie's presence is to his happiness.
"No need," I reply. I can't stomach his thanks. I'm happy Annie is safe and with Finnick, but thinking of the mission brings me images of blonde doctors, and now, little girls asking for lollipops.
Finnick sets his cup down, but keeps his hands on it. His eyebrows contract, marring his perfect beauty. "What happened to Peeta last night, I don't think it was a nightmare," he says so softly I almost don't hear him.
"Then what was it?"
"I think it was a flashback or a panic attack. Probably both."
"Peeta doesn't have flashbacks," I respond automatically. But there was something off about what happened last night. Peeta doesn't react physically to his nightmares and there's the question of why I couldn't wake him up. Prim told me I needed to talk to Peeta about his nightmares when I first arrived, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do so nor has Peeta brought it up.
"Katniss, I told Peeta what happened to him in the Capitol while you were gone. He remembers," Finnick says flatly.
I understand why he brought me to the dining hall and away from the shooting range. An intense surge of anger pulses though me so quickly it's likely I would have shot him. The only thing keeping me from lunging across the table at him is the people sitting down for lunch. Still, that's only holding me back so much. "Why would you tell him? I told you not to." My voice rises above the voices of the people around us. A couple who was headed toward a table adjacent to ours veer off in a different direction.
Finnick leans over the table so he can lower his voice. "He was adamant about it. He wanted to know. I thought it would give him some peace of mind, but it completely backfired."
"Of course it did!" I hiss. I never should have left Peeta behind with these people. They can't follow a simple instruction. How could they let this happen? It was a blessing that Peeta didn't remember what happened to him and they brought it all back. All that torture and violence? I want to break something. I want to break Finnick's face.
To his credit, Finnick does appear contrite for his actions; that's what his sagging eyebrows and puppy dog eyes are saying.
"Last night wasn't the first time it's happened, is it?" I question.
"No. He had an…uh…episode immediately after I told him. And once more during a meeting with Plutarch and Haymitch."
"So, do you think he'll be like Annie now?" I ask too harshly. It makes Finnick flinch.
"I don't know. Maybe it won't be that severe. More than likely it'll get better over time," he says encouragingly, but then his face turns contrite once again. Time. How can it get any better? We have so little time.
I turn away, needing to catch my breath.
"He will have to be a little more careful," Finnick continues. "If it does happen, just talk him through it. Tell him it's going to end and he's going to be safe again. That's what works with Annie." Finnick speaks the truth. That's what I did with Annie in the Capitol, though I more or less fumbled through it and merely hoped I wasn't doing more harm than good.
"Were you there for him? When he had the panic attacks?" I pant into my chest.
"Yeah," Finnick responds sadly, like he's making an apology.
Finnick rescued Peeta. I saved Annie. We've done more for one another than any person could ask of a friend. "Thank you for helping him. Every time you helped him."
"You're welcome, Katniss."
When I get to Peeta's room, I find out the procedure is finished and Peeta is asleep. It was some kind of blood exchange. I know I should pay better attention when they're talking about Peeta's health, but I didn't understand what it was supposed to do, and my mother said it was a good idea, and I trust her. On this matter I trust her. Peeta's complexion is a little brighter, but that's the only noticeable difference I see.
I pace back and forth at the foot of his bed. I'm making too much noise and I'm going to wake him up if I'm not quieter. I'm like Gale in this moment. I need to move or the energy inside me will drive me insane. I'm still angry at Finnick. I'm angry at Peeta. Why would he ask for such a burden? Did he lose all common sense while I was gone? It's not fair to him. It's not fair to me. There's only so much strain the mind can take before it breaks.
I stop in my tracks. I crumple to the floor. The panic attacks? Flashbacks? What is that, if not his mind reaching its breaking point?
My tears combine with the dust and dirt on the cold floor. The smudges get onto my hands and eventually my face when I wipe at my tears. My body shakes as I'm wracked with sobs. I cry though my anger. I cry through my grief. I cry over everything that's wrong. I never wanted to be responsible for the deaths of so many innocent people. I don't want Cinna and Johanna to be dead. I don't want my home to be completely wiped off the face of the earth.
I cry for the one thing I had, the one thing which was returned to me, Peeta. Not because he is wrong, because it's wrong that he was subjected to such punishment, that he remembers it, which means I must now remember it. I can't pretend it didn't happen. I can't pretend any of it didn't happen.
Peeta sleeps for a long time. It's a good thing. By the time he rouses, my face is dry. I crawled my way into the horseshoe chair and mostly stared at the spot on the floor that's been dusted clean because of my collapse.
Peeta's thirsty when he wakes up so I get him some water. He sips it for a few moments and says he feels better, more energized, less pain. It's an improvement, but my mother made it clear that the treatment wasn't a cure.
"Can we talk about what happened last night?" I say quietly. I sound exhausted, which is disappointing because Peeta actually sounds somewhat energetic for once.
He sets his glass on the nightstand. "What do you mean?" he hedges. Typical.
"I mean, can we talk about the flashback you were having?"
Peeta, who was looking so strong and optimistic, visually deflates. He slouches into his pillows, of which he has several more than he did before I left. Prim must have requested them.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, my voice sounding raspy. I take a sip of water from his glass.
"It's not a big deal." He sighs.
"I didn't know what was happening to you," I say warily. An hour ago my lip would be quivering, but after the time I spent on the floor, I'm basically drained. "I thought you were having a nightmare, but then I couldn't get you to wake up. Do you understand how scared I was?"
Peeta analyzes his hands resting on his lap.
"You can't lie to me," I say sternly.
"I wasn't lying," Peeta immediately responds, his voice taking on an edge I haven't heard in weeks, months even. "I just didn't tell you. I didn't want you to worry."
"Don't pull that with me," I snap. "I've had more than enough of people protecting me for my own good."
"You were doing the same thing when you refused to tell me," Peeta scoffs. He may be accurate, but that means nothing.
"And I was right!" I shout. Peeta rolls his eyes. If it's in disagreement, I'm not sure. I know I'm right. The things being kept from me didn't cause me further damage when I eventually found them out. "Why did you even ask Finnick?"
"I don't know," Peeta says tersely, his frustration escalating. "I didn't like not knowing. What if there was something in my memories that could have helped you or the whole rebellion itself and I didn't know it?"
I give him a chance. "Was there anything?"
A pause. Then truth. "No," he grounds out reluctantly.
"We have to more careful now. Avoid the things that might bring on the flashbacks."
"I know. I get it," he gripes. His hands are thrown up in frustration before rubbing over his eyelids like he has a headache coming on.
Even though I'm right, and even though Peeta made a mistake, I don't feel good about it. I'll never feel good about anything that causes Peeta to suffer. On top of that, this is the best he's felt in days and I sapped all his energy by picking a fight with him. Our first married fight. Coming to this realization takes all the fight out of me. I move to sit on the edge of his mattress facing him. I gently pull his hand from his eyes and place it in my lap. His forehead doesn't smooth out right away so I touch the wrinkles there until his face relaxes. "I wish you would have told me. I would have taken better care of you."
"Katniss, look at me," he says with a defeated shrug. "I'm confined to a bed and I can't walk to the bathroom on my own. All you do is take care of me."
I lean forward and brush my lips over the twitching creases in his forehead. "That's what we've always done," I whisper. Take care of each other. Before the war, before the Games, before we were friends.
Peeta gently tilts my face, pressing his lips to mine. Quick sweeps of his tongue guide us into our own escape from the madness. His hands slide down my shoulders, pausing for a moment to grip my arms, and then they continue on their path downward until they find my waist. He slips under the hem of my top and his fingers softly caress the skin of my lower back. There's an apology in his touch. There's a sweetness coupled with a slight bit of urgency, but that's always been there. However, there's now a sharpness connected to that urgency because even Peeta can't take me out of reality completely, not after what we've been speaking about.
I pull away. When he follows I cup my hand over his cheek and sweep my thumb over his lips. "Do you know what set off the attack?"
Peeta exhales his disappointment. He leans back again, taking his hands with him. "I think I had a fever."
"Just a fever?"
"I woke up. You were asleep. I was really warm and uncomfortable." Peeta's forehead creases yet again. Before I can address it he moves toward me and returns his hands to their place on my back. My skin providing comfort I didn't know it could. "Something about being so warm brought back this sensation of an intense heat moving under my skin." Peeta's fingers dig into my flesh a little, not enough to be painful, but enough to make me nervous. "And before I could tell myself it wasn't real, it felt real. It felt so real." His hands grip me with more force. I feel the strain in his arms and see it on his face.
I quickly wrap my arms over his shoulders, pulling his face into the crook of my neck. "It wasn't real. That's never going to happen to you again. I'll keep you safe."
Peeta moves his arms to hold me close. He presses his face to my neck, then my chest, then back to neck, rocking us ever so slightly. When his tense muscles loosen and his breathing is even, I know this is the moment when I learn to comfort with more than touch, with words. This is the day I make good on that promise I made so long ago. I'll lock him up in my arms where no one can hurt him.
"I'm sorry I'm this way."
I know what he means. I know I should yell at him. I should tell him what ridiculous thing that is to say, but I don't want to fight. That's over with. And from what I've heard, after married couples fight, they play. "What way? A dimwitted man who doesn't listen to his wife? Peeta, I wouldn't dare expect anything more."
A laugh against my skin. A kiss to my shoulder. White teeth and a smile. For an instant, there's no wrong, there's only right.