The house is silent when I wake up, and mine and Peeta's room is pitch black. I have to blink a few times to orient myself with the darkness, and once I'm something close to conscious I realize that I'm so soaked with sweat that the sheet underneath my back is damp.
I lift my hand to find that the ice I went to sleep with has melted, which means that at least I'm not to blame for all of the wetness on the sheet. But because there's been no cold compress on my fingers, the swelling has come back and they're throbbing something awful. When I try to move them, pain shoots up my entire arm before settling back in my knuckles, which makes me whimper and clench my jaw.
I hold the bad wrist with my good hand and sit up. My hair sticks to my sweaty neck and as I lean forward, it falls on either side of my face like a dark curtain. I rock back and forth, breathing as deeply as I can, and try to stay quiet. Peeta should sleep.
I gingerly touch the bruising, but doing so only makes the searing ache worse. I bite my lower lip, wondering how I'm going to fix this, then feel the bed shift behind me.
"Katniss?" Peeta says, his voice thick and groggy. He reaches for me and his fingertips graze the curve of my spine. "Are you okay?"
I turn towards him, one knee bent to rest on the mattress with the other foot hanging to graze the cool hardwood floor. I glance between my injured hand and his half-lidded eyes and know that I need to tell him the truth. There's no use in keeping it from him - it's not like it'll get any better by morning and there's no way I'll be able to fall back to sleep. I don't think he'll be able to help, but he likes to be aware.
"My hand," I say quietly, giving it to him.
Peeta's eyes open all the way when they land on it - my hand, lit by the shine of the moon coming in from the window, looks like a winter mitten at this point. "It got worse," he says, making sure to avoid touching the most swollen spots.
"It woke me up," I say, sounding like a child. But I don't mind sounding like that with him; I don't mind needing him. It's strange.
"Of course it did," he says, studying it with worried, furrowed eyebrows. "You should've gotten me up sooner."
"I haven't been awake for long," I say, leaning my full weight against his side after he moves to sit up. I curl against him, stealing his warmth, but he's too distracted to reciprocate my sleepy affection.
"We need to call your mother," he says matter-of-factly.
My response comes as a knee-jerk reaction. "No," I say.
"I'm sorry, Katniss, but I'm not asking anymore," he says softly. "It's either her or Dr. Aurelius."
"Not him," I mutter.
"Then we have to," he says, stroking my good forearm with his thumb.
"It's the middle of the night," I say, grasping at any excuse I can manage. I know he won't go for it, but for some reason I still try. "She's asleep."
"This is urgent enough, I think," he says. "Do you want to call, or do you want me to?"
"You," I say, without hesitation.
Our phone is connected to the wall downstairs in the kitchen. If he were going downstairs for any other reason, I would most likely follow him in the way that Buttercup does, but I don't want to overhear his conversation with my mother. So, I stay in bed, keep my hand cradled close to my chest, and wait.
Buttercup saunters into the room just as I hear Peeta's footsteps on the stairs. He gets comfortable in the spot Peeta vacated, knowing full well that he'll only get lifted off. Peeta does it much more kindly than I do, lifting the cat up by his middle and placing him at the foot of the bed where he belongs. Even down there, he attacks my feet most nights. Sometimes, when Peeta's long asleep, I accidentally-on-purpose kick a little too hard and send him flying.
"She's getting her things together and taking the next train," he says. "She'll be here in the morning."
"So soon?" I ask. I expected a few days, at least. A few days full of pain, but at least I would have time to mentally prepare to see her.
"You'll get worse," he says. "She told me that your fingers need to be set and braced. She's bringing a cast, just in case."
A part of me is relieved that my mother will be here. The sooner my hand is treated, the sooner it will heal and I can get back to the woods.
As of right now, though, all it does is pulse and distract me from any thoughts of sleep. Peeta glances at my face, then my hand, and says, "I think there's some leftover sleep syrup in the bathroom, if you want it."
"Sure," I say, because I don't think I'll get to sleep without some sort of aid. I wouldn't really mind staying up and waiting for my mother, but knowing Peeta, he'd insist on staying up with me. Not that I'd mind the company, because it would be nice, but he needs his rest. After sleepless nights, he spends the next day foggy and out-of-sorts. I dislike it almost as much as he does, because I miss him when he's absent from his mind like that.
He brings me a spoonful of sleep syrup, one hand cupped under it just in case it spills. "Open up, little bird," he says with a small grin, and I do. I part my lips and he slides the spoon inside my mouth, and I swallow the stuff quickly - before the sickly sweet taste can linger on my tongue.
…
I haven't taken sleep syrup for quite a while, but I don't think the last time came with such awful dreams. This time, the nightmares occur one after the other, leaving no time to catch my breath in between. There are instances when I open my eyes, completely sure that I'm waking up, only to be staring down Caesar Flickerman's microphone, or lizard mutts, or a field of plush white roses.
I have a hard time finding the line between my dreams and reality, but I'm pretty sure I'm not imagining the way Peeta tries to wake me up to get me out of bed and to the couch downstairs. I can't get my brain to connect to my legs, though, so he ends up lifting me and carrying me down the stairs. I fall right back into a deep sleep as soon as he lays me down on the couch.
There's no way to know how much time passes when I open my eyes again, and this time I see Prim. Right beside me, perched on the edge of the couch, fading in and out of focus. I'm not sure if my lips cooperate, but I try to smile. "Little Duck," I say, and her old nickname comes so easily.
She says something but I can't discern what. It's enough just to hear her voice, so I don't ask her to repeat herself.
"You're here," I say, and I hear the way my words slur together. I sound like Haymitch after a day and night full of white liquor. "You came to fix me?"
Her head moves in a nodding motion and I think she says 'yes.' I manage another lopsided smile, laughing at how loopy it must make me look. I try to explain why I'm laughing, but all that comes out are more giggles.
Prim takes my hand into her lap, the bad hand, but I don't feel a thing. This sleep syrup is more powerful than I remember.
…
When I wake up again, my mind is clear. Too clear. My fingers ache and throb, but when I lift my hand to inspect them, I can't see them. They're covered with white plaster, shielding them from harm, and the lower half of my arm is stiff and protected.
As I examine the thing, I realize my only company is Buttercup, who's nestled between my body and the back of the couch with his chin resting on my hip. I blink at him and he blinks back, practically begging me to do something about his proximity when I can't coherently put together the last however-many hours. I have no idea how long I've been asleep. Or in whatever sort of state I was just in.
"Peeta," I call. His name, the first word out of my mouth.
Instantly, I hear footsteps. Then, he appears over the back of the couch. "You're up," he says, sounding relieved.
"Something like that," I murmur, rubbing my eyes with my good hand. "Was Prim here?"
He looks at me with confusion, his blonde eyebrows knitted together. "Katniss, no…" he says, shaking his head. "No, she wasn't. She's not…"
"Of course not," I say quickly - I don't want to sound crazy. She'd just been so vivid. It was like she was right here, treating me. They had been training her to be a doctor in 13. The role fit her so well in my twilight state. So strange that it wasn't real.
My mother appears at Peeta's side and looks at me with cautious blue eyes. She's dressed in a beige dress with a teal overlay, the same uniform that Prim had been wearing in my dream. Except I don't think it was a dream anymore. I don't think I was seeing Prim. Suddenly, it clicks into place and out of everything I could choose to feel, I feel angry. I don't want the blonde healer beside me to have been my mother. I want it to have been my sister.
That's impossible, I know. But no one ever said I was rational.
"I'm glad you're awake," Peeta says, leaning over the couch to press a gentle kiss to my forehead.
"Me, too," I say. "I couldn't stop dreaming."
"I gave you some anesthesia," my mother says, her voice as quiet as ever.
"That mixed with the sleep syrup was what did it, I think," Peeta says.
I nod, not having much more to say on the subject, and stare into space while half-listening to what my mother and Peeta say to each other. Peeta is talking about dinner, his favorite meal of the day, and asking what she wants to eat. I'm not sure how she replies, but I'm starving, so I cut in. "Is there chicken?" I ask.
"We used the last of it," he says. "Is that what you want?"
"Hmm, no, it's fine," I say - but he knows better.
"You haven't eaten for almost 24 hours," he says. "You have to be hungry. I'll go see if the butcher has anything good."
I'm about to tell him that he doesn't have to do that, but he's already halfway out the door by the time I put my thoughts together. Either he's especially eager to feed me or my brain is still moving slow - probably a mix of both.
After the front door closes, Buttercup stands there and meows like he always does when Peeta leaves. Even when Peeta steps outside for fresh air, that cat makes his grievances known.
"He sure likes Peeta," my mother says.
I'd almost forgotten she was here. She's sitting on the arm of the couch, staring at the fire after glancing over her shoulder at the cat.
"Yeah, he does," I say tersely.
I don't have anything to say. I'm not angry with her, per se, but I don't have any warm feelings towards her. I don't miss her in the way I miss my sister, or even my father. I still can't get over the vacant look in her eyes and the way she sat there and did nothing during the years I needed her most.
"You and Peeta have gotten-" she begins, but I don't let her finish.
"You don't know anything about me and Peeta," I snap.
She doesn't know what to say after that and neither do I. We sit in silence until Peeta comes back, and even then, Buttercup is the first to make any sound when he walks through the door. I would cross my arms if I were able to, but I'm not, so I throw one across my chest while the one in the cast lies limp on my lap. My mother keeps her eyes on the fire like it might tell her a secret.
Peeta can sense the tension instantly. Trying to break it, he calls out, "Who's hungry?"
…
My mother doesn't stay long - she doesn't even wait until dinner is finished cooking. There's a train at 8pm and Peeta walks her to the station while the chicken is in the oven. I stay on the couch, tortured by the tantalizing smells as I'm immobilized by the pain medication coursing through my veins.
When Peeta comes back, he lifts Buttercup from his usual post by the door and brings him to the couch. "Keep her company," he tells the cat, tucking him inside the blanket with me.
I groan but I don't have much strength to do anything about it. Peeta laughs good-naturedly as I turn my face away from Buttercup, who's taken it upon himself to groom my hair with his sandpaper tongue.
"I'm gonna finish dinner," he says. He swipes his thumb over my eyebrow to smooth it down and gives me a small smile, one that grips my heart tight and squeezes it.
"I'll come," I say, with the full intention of getting up from the couch. But the next thing I know, Peeta is sitting at my feet and brushing Buttercup away so he can't snatch our dinner out from under our noses. I must have fallen asleep - again.
He brought two plates of roast chicken and green beans - canned ones, since there's nothing much growing right now. I sit up and do my best to hold my fork with my good hand - he's already cut the chicken - but the one wrapped in a cast doesn't do a very good job of holding the plate steady. My stomach growls in protest and I'm about to lower my face to the plate like an animal before Peeta comes to the rescue.
"Here," he says, "let me."
He stabs a bite of chicken with the fork I'd been trying to use and extends it towards my mouth in the way I used to feed Prim when she was tiny. "Peeta," I say, frowning. "I'm not a baby."
"I'm aware," he says. "But you weren't exactly having an easy time of it."
"I can manage," I say, taking the fork from him to try again. I don't like being waited on. It makes me feel incapable.
I try to skewer a green bean but it rolls away and the plate almost topples over in my lap. I can feel Peeta's eyes on me, but now I've dug a hole for myself and I don't want to admit that I can't climb out.
He lets me make a fool out of myself for a few minutes longer while he eats. I don't know what I'm trying to prove, but whatever it is isn't working. By the time he's cleaned his plate, I've only taken two bites of chicken and my green beans have gone completely cold.
"Peeta," I say quietly, admitting defeat. "Will you?"
He doesn't need me to clarify; he was just waiting for me to ask. Now that I have, he takes the plate from me and scoots closer, feeding me until my stomach is full and I can't eat another bite.
He takes both plates to the kitchen and when he comes back to the couch, his eyes are swimming with thoughts. His mind is busy, that much I can tell. So, when he breaks the silence and says my name, I'm not surprised. I answer with a small sound and he turns to face me.
"Why do you have such a hard time accepting help?" he asks. "There are people who want to take care of you - your mother, me. Why won't you let it happen?"
My first instinct is to refute what he says, but there are two reasons why I don't: One, I don't have the energy - my stomach is full and the pain pills are making my thoughts soupy. Two, he might not be wrong.
So, for a moment we just sit quietly and look at each other. Then, my breath comes more raggedly, my chest heaves, and my throat constricts with the tears that have crept up on me faster than I know how to deal with. When one slips from my right eye, I bite my lip hard and blink it away, but that only causes more to get caught in my eyelashes.
All that comes from my mouth is: "I don't know." And my voice is a small, pathetic peep.
Peeta continues to look at me - really study me. His eyes aren't harsh, he's not angry, but he's determined to get his point across. "Your mother was here to support you," he says. "To help you. She was here so you could lean on her."
I sniffle loudly and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. "And then she left," I say, my mouth gone spitty with tears.
"Because she knew you didn't want her here," he says calmly, never breaking eye contact. "That's why she left."
I continue to cry, not saying anything because I don't know what to say. "I don't know what to do with it," I say, rubbing my eyes with my fists. "I'm not used to being looked after. She stopped doing it for me a long time ago. Since then, no one really has." I let out a shuddering exhale, then say, "Except you."
I'm thinking of the bread he tossed me, how no one could have looked after me in a more necessary way. He saved my life then, and it was far from the last time.
"She wants to," he says. "She wants to be better." He looks down at the blanket and chews the inside of his cheek before speaking again. "Wanting to try is half the battle, isn't it? It was nice having her here. She acts, at least in some ways, like a mother should."
I read in between the lines of his words and know, on an intrinsic level, that he's referencing his own mother and the abhorrent way she treated him. I can still remember how hard she smacked him over the head after he burnt the bread for me. The darkness in her eyes, the grim set of her mouth. I don't know how she created a light like Peeta. It doesn't seem possible.
Maybe it came from his father, the man who wrapped cookies and gave them to me before the Games. Peeta must miss him. How come I've never asked him about his father?
"If she wasn't dead, I'd kill her," I say. The words spill from my lips before I have a chance to filter them - thanks, once again, to the medicine coursing through my system.
I'm not sure how to interpret the look he gives me. He doesn't laugh or smile, but he doesn't scold me either. His eyes are indecipherable. Maybe he doesn't know how to feel about her. Maybe he's glad she's gone and he wishes that he didn't feel that way. I don't know.
Every passing second that I think about how horribly she treated him, my emotions come closer to overtaking me completely. I wonder if she ever did anything kind for him as a child - if she made him special treats on his birthday, taught him how to tie his shoes, or gave him haircuts. I wonder if she bought him special clothes for school - I doubt she made them herself, as that wasn't common with merchant families anyway, but she also didn't seem the type.
With my mind on the subject of making clothes, a place I traveled without saying anything aloud, I remember Peeta's green knit sweater. It's more than halfway done, I've finished the arms and the shoulders, but the back panel needs work and so do the collar and seams. As I linger on the thought, my eyes gravitate to my useless hand and I start to cry all over again like the uncontrollable mess that I am tonight.
"Your sweater," I sob, covering my face with my good hand. I can barely catch my breath. "I was almost done. And now I can't - now I can't -" My voice breaks and I'm crying so hard that I'm making no sound at all when Peeta pulls me to his side and folds our bodies together. "What if it's warm outside by the time my stupid hand heals?" I blubber.
"It won't be," he says, keeping his voice low and comforting.
"I'm sorry," I say.
I'm apologizing for more than the sweater. I'm apologizing for pushing my mother away, and taking her for granted. I'm apologizing for pushing him away, and taking him for granted. I hope he understands. I don't know if he does. I tell myself to let him know as soon as I can make sense of my thoughts.
"Shhh," Peeta says, holding me close.
He kisses my head and rocks me from side to side. As he does, I feel something furry against my chest and look down to see Buttercup headbutting me. I pull him close with the bad hand and he allows it, purring so loudly that I can feel it in my bones.
…
Without my being able to knit or hunt, I've taken to observing Peeta a lot more. Not only when he bakes, but also when he sleeps, when he talks, and mostly when he draws.
Tonight, we're sitting where we always sit - in front of the fire. I'm looking forward to warmer weather when we can sit outside, but while it's cold this is nice. I like to stay near the fire to make sure Peeta is warm, since that's so important to his mental wellbeing.
We're sitting with our backs against the couch. Peeta has his knees steepled in front of him with the sketchbook resting on his thighs, and I'm leaning on his arm with my cheek on his shoulder. I keep my good fingers loosely wrapped around his wrist, gently tracing the bones and ruffling the fine blonde hair he has there.
I let my eyes wander the room and they land on the photo of my mother, me, and baby Prim on the mantel. I know Peeta said that he doesn't have any photos from his childhood, but I'm curious to know more about it. I figure there's no better time to ask than right now.
"There shouldn't just be my pictures," I say with no precursor. I run the pad of my pointer finger over the bumps of his knuckles as I continue. "Maybe you could draw something good that you remember from your childhood."
"You think?" he asks. I nod. "Like what?"
"I don't know," I say. "One of my fondest memories is when I brought home Prim's goat, Lady. I can still see the look on her face." I open my mouth to go into more detail, but I don't want to cry - it's been about a week since the last crying jag, the big one, and I don't want to go back there. "Do you have any moments like that?"
He thinks for a moment, sketching faint gray lines on the blank page that don't turn into anything at all. Just doodles. But even his doodles are beautiful.
"When I was really small," he says. "There was a part of the bakery that was being rebuilt. Or remodeled, or something. I can't remember. My brothers and I were so interested in all the tools and the sounds and the work, but my mother wouldn't let us anywhere near it. So one morning, my father snuck us to the site while she was still asleep. He carried me on his shoulders while Buckley and Rye tagged along beside him. I can't really remember the construction, but I remember how it felt to be up so high. Above everything else, like nothing could touch me. I've never forgotten that feeling."
I lift my head after he's done telling the story and look him in the eyes. I don't need to speak - all I have to do is nod and he understands what I mean. After that, he puts his pencil to the page and creates a more vivid scene than I could have ever conjured up myself.
A big man in the middle of the frame that I recognize as the baker, Peeta's father. Two young boys at his side, one a bit taller than the other, both with curly mops of hair that fall into their eyes as they direct their smiles upwards. Then there's Peeta, balanced on his father's sturdy shoulders, grinning so brightly that his eyes are pinched tightly closed. I can tell, just by the drawing, how free he felt that day.
He carefully rips it out of his sketchbook and I ask, "Can I see?"
I gently take the paper when he hands it to me and stand up from the rug. I cross the room to the blazing fireplace and find the perfect place, then prop up the drawing of Peeta's family right next to the photo of mine.
"There," I say, walking back to my spot. Instead of letting me sit beside him, Peeta pulls me onto his lap and I curl up right away, resting my head in the crook of his neck as I keep my eyes on the drawing. "That's better."
…
The next time Haymitch comes over for dinner, Peeta makes challah bread to prepare. "Look," he says, pulling my attention away from the cheese I was grating. "I've been practicing."
His hands move expertly and it takes me a moment to realize that he's braiding the dough. He does it quickly - I guess he really has been practicing. - and the final product looks pristine.
He beams at me once he finishes and all I can do is gape and say, "Show me again."
With a smile, he works more dough into the right consistency and separates it into three thick ropes. I watch with my arms wrapped around his waist from behind, peering around his arm to get the best view of what he's doing. When I hear the front door come open, I don't look up from the braided dough nor do I take my arms away from Peeta's middle. I stay right where I am, because it feels good. Let Haymitch see.
"Look at you, boy," Haymitch says, eyebrows raised towards the bread. "Still got it."
"Still got it," Peeta says, grinning. Once the second loaf is braided, he runs his floury hands over the tops of mine where they rest above the waistband of his pants, and I give him a small squeeze before unlatching myself and going to set the table.
Peeta and Haymitch talk in the kitchen while I'm in the dining room setting up; I'm sure they're talking about me and my progress - or lack thereof, depending on the day - but I don't mind. For the first time, I don't have the urge to burst in there and either demand to be part of the conversation or shut them both up. I just let it be. I place three plates on the table, three cups, and the right amount of silverware. And when Peeta brings out the bread and the venison stew, we all sit down and there's no tension in the air. I almost don't know what to do with this comfort.
"So, sweetheart," Haymitch says, slurping his soup. He might be easier to be around, but he's still disgusting. "How's the hand?"
I lift up my stiff wrist, still covered in its plaster, and turn it this way and that so he can see. "Fine," I say. "I'm just sick of it."
"I'll bet you are," he says. "When's that thing coming off?"
"About two weeks," I say.
"Go easy on the hand when it does," he says, chewing.
"I've been telling her that," Peeta says.
"I'll be just fine," I tell them - with just the right amount of chiding in my voice.
"Here," Haymitch says, pulling out a pen from his pocket. "I'll sign it. This is what they used to do in school. Something to remember me by."
I frown at him. "Where do you plan on going so that I have to remember you?"
He shrugs. "Nowhere. Still, it's always good to have your old mentor top of mind."
I roll my eyes and begrudgingly hand over my cast-covered wrist. I let him do his work on it while I eat a heavily-buttered piece of challah bread, praising Peeta for how amazing it tastes, but I'm distracted by Haymitch's wild cackling a moment later. He leans back in his chair, hands over his belly, and I snatch my hand back to see what he's done.
I'm met with Haymitch's chicken scratch handwriting - one line that says, "You're doing a real shit job of staying alive."
I look at Peeta with an unamused expression and tilt the cast so he can see. And although he tries, he can't keep the smirk off of his lips. With Haymitch still bellowing beside me and Peeta ready to crack up, I find myself unable to stay serious. My lips twitch with a persistent grin, and pretty soon I'm full-out smiling. Then chuckling. Then, the three of us are belly-laughing for some reason - no reason, every reason - until tears run down our faces.
…
In bed with Peeta, I like to lay behind him and mold my body to the shape of his. He says we're like two spoons in a drawer and that he should be the big one, but I disagree. I like wrapping myself around him, and he's just the right size.
Tonight, with my bad arm draped over his middle, I'm drifting off to sleep while feeling lingering happiness from dinner. It might have been a little unhinged, but I'm just thankful we were laughing instead of crying.
I actually liked having Haymitch over tonight. It felt good, and normal. But then, when he left, it was very nice to be with just Peeta again. And Buttercup, too, I suppose.
I take a deep breath with my nose in the curls on the back of Peeta's head, then press a sleepy kiss to the side of his neck. I let my eyes drift closed, then feel him take my arm and produce a pen from somewhere before carefully scrawling something on the plaster. I'm about to ask what he could possibly be writing - but sleep is too powerful. It insists on taking me.
…
I wake up first the next morning and take a deep breath, feeling well-rested from the night before. Even though I fell asleep playing the big spoon to Peeta, right now his head is on my chest and his hand is resting in the flat plane between my breasts - right over my heart that starts to hammer as soon as I realize his position. I find that I don't want to move him, though, so I let him stay.
I run his silky soft curls through the fingers of my good hand, letting my eyelids droop as I'm comfortable enough to fall back to sleep. With Peeta's deep breathing and the perfect weight of his body on mine, I can't think of much anything better.
Disturbing the peaceful moment, Buttercup hops down from the bed and starts batting around something on the floor. I crane my neck to see what he has and find out that it's a pen - which strikes me as odd until I remember last night, when Peeta was writing on my cast.
I lift my bad arm to the light to read what I was too exhausted to look at before. And there, far away from Haymitch's dumb joke, are three little words written in Peeta's neat, blocky handwriting.
I love you.