The Secret Life of Bees
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belong to Ms. Suzanne Collins, Scholastic, and Lionsgate Entertainment. The Secret Life of Bees belongs to Sue Monk Kidd. Be Here to Love Me belongs to Norah Jones.
Thanks to: SavannahHershey, my beta and fangirl-in-crime, and orea domina!
Ships: Katniss/Peeta, (Haymitch/Effie, Delly/Thom, Gale/OC)
Summary: Katniss tries to do something nice for Peeta, and they share a special anniversary dinner, with a big question at the end.
Rating: M for mature language, violence, and explicit sexual situations.
A/N: Thanks for the review and comments and favorites! I'm flattered and blushing and all that jazz. How much more do we have to this tale? A bunch. Some of you are asking, "Where is Gale?" He is hiding (because Peeta or Katniss might kill him.) "Where is Johanna? Where is Annie? Where is Mrs. Everdeen?" In short, I'm not sure how many of them A) are able (allowed) to travel to Twelve; and B) how much they actually want to come. For now, phone calls and letters will have to suffice. This chapter is about a big step for Peeta and Katniss, so I just want to focus on them for a little while. I think this chapter's a good one—enjoy! (YAY FOOD PORN! The second best kind of porn in THG!)
Tumblr: parachutesfromhaymitch
AO3: pippiblondestocking
Chapter 21: Be Here to Love Me
Your eyes seek conclusion
In all this confusion of mine.
Though you and I both know
It's only the warm glow of wine.
I hate cooking. I loathe cooking. There's a reason I leave it to Peeta; I suck at it. If it's not rabbit stew or grilling meat, I'm a disaster in the kitchen. Even adding a simple dressing to salad reduces me to angry tears. Which is why I keep dinner hearty and simple; it's not just because Peeta is a meat and potatoes kind of man, but rather because I'm kitchen-challenged. I fucking suck at being domestic, I think as I mix the rice with the ground beef. THIS DOMESTIC SHIT IT NOT MY JAM.
A few weeks ago, Annie had sent me Finnick's favorite recipe: stuffed peppers. The day the mail came, I pried Annie's letter from Peeta's hot hands.
"MINE!" I proclaimed, holding it tight. Peeta and Buttercup looked at me as if I had lost my fucking mind.
"Girl stuff?" Peeta broached, and I nodded. He didn't ask any questions after that, but I knew he was jealous that Annie had written to me—and only me—and quizzical as to why I wouldn't share. The letter was just her recipe and explanation that this recipe had been in her family for ages, and came from a land far, far way, across an ocean, and that Finnick loved it because it was so different than their usual fare in Four. But this recipe, the stuffed papers, it was something I could handle. I could find everything at the market at home: peppers, onions, garlic, rice, ground sausage, cheese, tomatoes, herbs. (And breadcrumbs, which I had in abundance, obviously.)
That's got you to feeling this way,
But I don't care—
I want you to stay
And hold me and tell me
You'll be here to love me today.
But now as I stand sweating at the counter, mixing the cooked rice and sausage and tomatoes and herbs together with my hands, I was panicking. I drenched in sweat from being stuck in a hot kitchen and sticky with olive oil.
This was supposed to be easy! Relaxing! I think as I mash everything together between my fingers. The feel of meat between my fingers is particularly pleasant. It's vaguely easy and familiar and reassuring, and his kitchen smells wonderful as I cook the tomatoes and onions and garlic, then adding the sausage. But when I add the rice to everything, and the mixture seems to explode in the bowl, I start freaking out. Something has to be wrong! I panic, there's too much stuffing! I frantically feed some of the stuffing to Buttercup, who seems to like it. I'd call Haymitch, but he's gone to the Capitol on "official business" (i.e. seeing Effie), and I can't call Annie, because Finn is still napping.
But everything smells okay, in Peeta's kitchen. Good, even. And since Buttercup hasn't yacked all over my feet on Peeta's immaculate kitchen floor, I assume it's okay to stuff the bell peppers with the stuffing. I stuff away, and as I'm spooning the tomato sauce over the tops, Peeta barges in the front door. His kitchen is an abject disaster, and he's going to throw a shit-fit.
"Shit!" I cry, inadvertently, slamming my hand over my mouth. "Fuck! You aren't supposed to be home yet!" I yell at him, hoping to keep Peeta at bay in the living room so that I can finish his surprise dinner. I hear Peeta sigh, and start barging towards the kitchen.
His face is red at the door. "KATNISS!" I try to block his way, but he's too big and too angry and pushes in anyway. I'm blushing and shirking and generally feeling terrible as he drops his bags on the table. He rounds on me. I push myself against him.
"Peeta, you can't be in here!" I shriek, attempting to push him though the door again. His entire body hardens. Fuck, now I've gone and done it, I think. He pulls away from me.
Children are dancin',
The gamblers are chancin' their all.
The window's accusing the door of abusing the wall
But who cares what the night watchmen say?
"KATNISS! THIS IS MY HOUSE—GOT IT—MY HOUSE! AND I HAVE EVERY GODDAMN RIGHT TO BE IN MY OWN FUCKING KITCHEN AFTER THE DAY I'VE HAD!" Peeta roars, slamming his fists down on the table. But then his eyes find mine, and he sees my lip trembling.
"Kat, I'm sorry for yelling at you like that, for acting like an animal. I just had a bad day, that's all. A mixer broke, flour everywhere…," he says, apologizing, kissing me hard and fast and wet. I wrap my hands weakly around his neck.
"S'okay, Peet," I murmur as his heartbeat settles down. "I'm just… I'm making you a special dinner, okay?" He presses his forehead against mine. "Let me make it up to you."
"Really? You never make 'special' dinner," Peeta giggles, squeezing my hip. I nod, staring into his cerulean eyes. I attempt to compose myself (which is no small task in his embrace).
"Yes, really. Will you go a build a fire? For later?" I ask, playing with his neck beard. He nods and smiles.
"Of course. This must be a very important dinner," he says with fake seriousness, then heads off with Buttercup to the living room to regain his composure and start a fire. I turn back to the peppers, sprinkling them with cheese and breadcrumbs, and shoving them in the oven. Special dinner, indeed.
"You taste like olive oil, Katniss!" Peeta yells gleefully from the living room, and I remember why I am supposed to be enjoying this.
The stage has been set for the play—
Hold me and tell me you'll be here to love me today.
The moon's come and gone
But a few stars hang on, on to the sky.
When we finally get to the dining room table, I feel as if I've moved heaven and hell to put dinner in front of Peeta. The peppers nearly burned, because I had been too busy trying to set the table properly (MANNERS! Effie yelled in my head) and pick out the right candles for the occasion. Being lazy, I settled on the set that I had brought earlier: handmade, from my own wax. But that wasn't before I could smell the cheese on the peppers browning, and I knocked over every chair between me and the kitchen to save them. The stuffed peppers were fine; my knees, not so much. I cut some of Peeta's fresh bread as the peppers cooled, and Peeta came in the dining room. We never use the dining room, really, preferring to eat in the kitchen. But Peeta has painted it the loveliest shade of yellow, like a chaff of grain, and it is so warm and inviting that I forget how formal it is supposed to be. Peeta gives me a sly smile and sets out some fresh butter next to the bread and uncorks a bottle of red wine.
"You said tonight was special," he whispers into my ear, sitting down at his place at the head of the table. I served us, then putting the rest of the cooked stuffing into Buttercup's bowl, and took my seat at Peeta's right.
He was smiling. "What did you make, Katniss? I've never seen these before," Peeta says as he sinks his knife into the soft bowl of the bell pepper. I blush everywhere.
"They're stuffed peppers. Annie sent me the recipe. It was Finnick's favorite. She said she mentioned it to you once, and you wanted to try it. So, here we are, trying it," I say, cutting into my own pepper, watching the stuffing spill out. Peeta gripped his knife tightly for a moment.
"Why are we eating it now, Katniss?" he asks cautiously. I shrug. He eats some, then takes a drink of wine—his eyes never leaving mine.
The wind's runnin' free
But it ain't up to me ask why.
The poets are demanding their pay
They've left me with nothin' to say.
"Because I was thinking about how much Finnick means to us, and how I didn't know how to really appreciate you until Finnick was gone, and then I couldn't bear the thought of living with myself without you, AND THEN YOU CAME BACK TO ME IN THE TUNNELS, and that was about a year ago, so here we are!" I shout, burying my face in my hands so that Peeta can't see my hot, emotional tears. OH. MY. GOD. WORD. VOMIT. STOP IT. YOU'RE GOING TO SCARE HIM AWAY! He just rubs my back, and between my fingers, I can see him smiling. Peeta's so goddamn smart.
"Did Annie tell you I'd like this, Katniss?" he asks ever so tenderly. I nod. He smiles, "She's right, you know, Finnick raved about these. She told me everything about him. I told her everything about you, about us. This was very nice of you. Thank you."
"You're welcome, I'm glad you like it," I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on my wine, unable to meet those unnervingly blue eyes.
"I appreciate it, Katniss," Peeta says deliberately, "I don't expect this every night."
"Tonight is special," I croak, bringing my napkin to my eyes. "One year ago tonight, you came back to me. In the Tunnel."
"So, is this like, our anniversary, Katniss?" Peeta says softly, reaching across the table and holding my left hand in his right, rubbing the knuckle of my ring finger. "The anniversary of the night that we stayed together, always?" I nod, stupidly.
"Yes. But we've been together far longer than that, Peeta. That night before the Quarter Quell, when you said we were married… I felt like… we were really married…," I mutter, pushing my stuffing around my plate. "But I didn't know if we were ready for this, three months ago, you know?" Now Peeta nods, rubbing my hand in that reassuring way that he always does.
"I was born ready, Katniss," Peeta replies; I'm not sure if he's joking or not. "Did you make the candles?" I nod, stuffing more food in my mouth, like a squirrel, and washing it down with wine. "They're really nice, Katniss…" I really don't know what to say, but it's so simple, really.
"It's always been you, Peeta, always," I sigh, finally meeting his gaze. He breaks into a huge smile and crushes his mouth to mine. In that kiss, I feel everything that Peeta has ever wanted: formal acknowledgement that I am his and he is mine, and that nothing will come between us. It's a mix of need and desire and want and comfort coupled with possession and dominance and animalism. I didn't know how badly I'd wanted to him to acknowledge it, too.
'Cept hold me and tell me
You'll be here to love me today.
"I, for one, like having anniversaries," he says into our stuffed pepper-kisses, "it gives me even more reasons to spoil you."
We pass the rest of our dinner talking about the bakery (Peeta was upset because a mixer broke and evidently the kitchen has been covered in a fine layer of flour and dust for the better part of the day) and the Hob and gossiping about Haymitch and Effie, and Peeta eats three stuffed peppers, and opens a second bottle of wine. Everything just feels so natural and normal and comfortable, and I just want to freeze this moment in time—like the last day we spent on the Roof at the Training Center before the Quarter Quell.
When we settle down on the bearskin rug in from of the roaring fire, and our cheeks are red with wine, and our bellies are full with bread and peppers, I rest my head in his lap, and Peeta makes knots with my hair. His fire crackles in front of us, hissing and smoking and keeping the cold air away. The first winter snow of late November starts to come down outside, and I think how very different our lives were a year ago, and how much better off we are now. Nothing could be hotter than the lack-of-space between Peeta and me right now. Life isn't perfect, but it's good enough.
Peeta looks down at me, his eyes warm and blue and curious, and he leans down to kiss me. Now I'm the one seeking out greedy kisses, craning my neck up so that my lips can meet his.
"Katniss," Peeta breathes, breaking our kiss; I just lie down there looking up at his incredible jaw line. "Katniss, move in with me."
I don't even need to draw a breath to answer; I pull myself up in his lap to face him and wrap my arms about his neck, and I press our noses together. "Always, Peeta, always." Our lips crash together, and I'm not sure where I end and he begins, and I don't even care—I just want him, more of him—always. There are no finite boundaries between Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen anymore.
And just like that, Peeta brings me home again.
Just hold me and tell me that you'll be here to love me today.