Disclaimer: This fic is rated 'M' for language and future sexual content. I do not own any of the characters of The Hunger Games (although I wish I did). All other ideas and creative liberties are my own.
The next few days continue in pretty much the same fashion. Rising with the sun. Trekking through the woods to check the snare lines. Foraging to restock supplies. Then, the evenings are spent by the fire as we try to get a better grasp of each other's worlds. We run into a few hiccups along the way thanks to a couple of misunderstandings from our minor language barrier, but overall things go relatively smoothly.
Ever since the night I learned about the reaping, Katniss has given me quite a bit to think about. Although my commitment to my people is still my top priority, what used to be black and white when it came to my mission is now a muddled grey. My conscience is having a hard time walking the now blurry line between duty and morals. This must be why, during training, they insisted we refrain from interacting with the locals. It's easier to swallow the reality of what could happen when you're not friendly with a potential opposing side. Which means I'm no closer to coming up with a plan on what to do when the countdown on my communicuff runs out.
Although I may be failing at the 'reporting back' portion of my mission, considering communication with my ship is still out, I've been more than successful on the observation part. Living with a native has put me at quite an advantage, and it helps a lot that I can't seem to get enough of her people's culture. How they live, their customs, laws, beliefs. But I've started to notice a trend whenever I try to steer the conversation towards the location of her village or the possibility of meeting others from her herd: Avoidance.
I know her afflicted past with the elders is the main reason, but if she'd just point me in the general direction, it'd make the remainder of my mission so much easier. I know Katniss insists her herd is not hostile, but I need to be sure for myself, and for the sake of my own people. I could be there and back in a few days, well before the three-week deadline. But if there's one thing she's yet to learn about me, it's not to underestimate my determination. Sooner or later she'll give in, and until then, I just need to find the right motivation.
With my most basic needs of survival covered, I've been able to focus more on getting to know this planet than worrying about where I'll be laying my head each night. Unlike the simulated 24-hour day we have on the ship, I've determined that the solar day on this planet is closer to 28 hours. Oh, and the trees that all used to look the same? I'm able to distinguish over a dozen different varieties now based on the shapes of the leaves and the color of the bark. And speaking of trees, there's also this one where if you're ever in need of a drink, all you have to do is drive a spike into the trunk and—bam! Instant drinking fountain.
When she asks me more about life aboard the ship, she's curious as to how we function as a society, seeing how my people are spread out amongst the thirteen ships. I start by explaining that the center of our government is based out of our mother ship, the Capitol. It houses the president and his council members, along with their families and extended families, other important figureheads, and not to mention the descendants of Earth's wealthiest and most powerful elite.
All the other ships vary when it comes to social class. My ancestors were under a time crunch to finish the ships before the Exodus, which resulted in a few of them not being as lavishly outfitted as the others. Those ships, Panem-9 to Panem-13, were left to house Earth's lower class, or "blue-collar" citizens, as they used to be called. Because of that, there's not much interaction among the ships, each one pretty much keeping to itself, unless a major problem arises and specialists from another ship are needed to be brought in for whatever reason.
I've spent a lot of my free time thinking about it, though. How it's to the Capitol's advantage to keep us segregated. Much easier to manage a population when you have them divided yet dependent on one another. Sure, each ship is self-sustaining to some degree, but none would last long without the others.
Like how the crew aboard Panem-3 specializes in technology and engineering, and those on Panem-5 keep our solar panels and fusion reactors running. Panem-9, 10, and 11 are the reasons we have food on our plates since their bioengineers and scientists are experts in space farming. Panem-4 are water specialists, working closely with the agricultural ships and dealing with process and wastewater on all the others.
And it's a smart setup, really; how else could you keep a fleet of ships all together for so long without one going rogue? Take away a ship's steady food supply and see how long they last on their own.
Speaking of food, Katniss also has this extreme fascination with—of all things—our food. She questions me constantly about how we've been able to sustain ourselves for so long. Although I'm no expert (not being from one of the agricultural ships), I still know where my food comes from. She's especially fascinated by the symbiotic environment of our aquaponic gardens, how we're able to raise fish and grow food vertically at the same time, taking advantage of each valuable inch we have to work with. And I have to repeat myself a few times when I tell her about the stoves and ovens. I'm still convinced she thinks they're run by magic.
The more I learn about her people, though, the more I learn about her in particular. Like how her head tilts to the left ever so slightly when she's thinking about something, and nibbles on her bottom lip when she concentrating. How the corner of her mouth twitches when she's frustrated, and how her lips practically disappear from pursing them so hard when she's really fed up. But beneath that cool and stiff exterior that she wears so well, Katniss is a caretaker.
It's when she opens up to me more about her father that I start to see a different side of her. A softer, but by no means weaker, side of her. Just before the reaping ten years ago, he and his hunting party disappeared, never to return, leaving her to fill the role of protector and provider for her widowed mother and sister.
Now she's taken me under her wing. A complete stranger who she could have just left alone to die in the woods. I'm not too proud to admit that if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have survived a week out here on my own. But after spending just a few short days shadowing Katniss, I've become increasingly familiar with this place, garnering enough knowledge to boost my chances of surviving this planet if left to my own devices.
However, as the old saying back on Earth goes, the moment you think things are starting to go right, something is inevitably bound to go wrong.
According to my communicuff, it's been nine days since I landed, which means I'm almost halfway through the three-week waiting period. It's been a long day. I swipe my arm across my brow, the thought of taking my suit off a tempting one. I've spent most of the morning on the ground, on my hands and knees foraging for tipsin and other medicinal herbs, including one that Katniss says will help with my stomach. It's still been having a little trouble adjusting to the local diet.
I've been put on berry duty for the afternoon and with my pack barely a quarter full, I'm about to throw in the towel and call it a day when I stumble across the mother lode of all bushes. It's covered in so many plump, bright red berries that the green leaves are barely visible. In no time, my pack is overflowing and the moment I'm about to head back to find Katniss, I spot her approaching out of the corner of my eye.
Beaming as I make my way toward her, I lift the pack over my head like a trophy. But she's not looking at me, rather somewhere off to the side, and she looks...confused? Scared? But that doesn't make any sense, so I continue on, trudging my way through the leaves and branches.
"Katniss! Look what I—"
"Peeta! No!"
Before her words can register, something whips around and hits me so hard, so squarely in the chest that it sends me flying back into a nearby tree trunk. Stunned, I sit there on my ass, trying to regain my wind. But then that's when the pain grabs hold of me like a vise, twisting up my leg and stealing the breath from my lungs for a second time.
My leg is on fire. Not literally, but fucking hell I'm convinced this is what it'd feel like. The pain is so blinding I can't understand why I haven't blacked out yet.
The air is tainted with the unmistakable smell of blood and even though I'm already seated, I almost fall over at the sight of my leg. Lodged in the front of my thigh is a wooden spike, and as my nose has already identified, there's blood. Lots and lots of blood. So much blood that panic spirals through my body and straight to my head, awakening a part of me that until now I've been able to repress, and before I know it I'm sent hurtling face first into a flashback...
I'm twelve years old again, huddled in the air return vent of our apartment as my mother screams and rants, throwing everything that's not bolted down against the walls as she rides out one of her episodes. She's been skipping her pills again, so without them I know she's beyond rational.
With eyes closed and my face buried against my knees, I rock back and forth, over and over, chanting quietly to myself that it'll soon be over. That she'll eventually tire and crash on the bed and sleep for the rest of the day like she always does. But she doesn't. And this time I know I've been caught when the metal grate is wrenched from the vent opening and I squeeze my arms tighter, forming a shivering ball of limbs.
A hand clasps around my ankle, nails digging into my skin as I'm dragged out from my hiding place. I know I shouldn't struggle, shouldn't fight back, but I can't help it. I kick and scream and my arms flail, fingers desperate for something to cling to, but all I find is the cold reality of smooth metal. When she's got my feet out, I'm kicking out of control, knees slamming into the walls, shouting for her to let me go, let me go, let me go. But she won't listen, can't hear me. She won't let me go.
Her other hand wraps around my calf and that's when she starts tugging, inching me out further and further. But then something sharp catches my pants and there's a startling R-I-I-I-I-P as the fabric tears apart. I'm crying out, howling in pain as that sharp something breaks through my skin, saws into my flesh, and I feel like my leg is on fire. But how can it be on fire if it feels wet? So very, very wet? And everywhere I look there are stars falling, hundreds and hundreds of them until they suddenly stop, thrusting me into complete and utter darkness.
If I'd been thinking clearly that day, I'd have stopped playing tug-of-war with my leg over that damn jagged piece of metal. Maybe then the nerve endings in my calf wouldn't have been torn to shreds and the doctors wouldn't have had to amputate everything below my knee.
Shaking my head, I find myself laughing, not that there's anything remotely funny about this, but because there are tears already running down my cheeks and my leg hurts so damn much that my body can't make up its mind on what to do.
A hand wraps around my ankle, pulling my leg taut and I swear I'm about to lose it, but then a gentle and familiar voice somehow penetrates the chaos in my head. Katniss.
"Peeta, you need to hold still."
My eyes struggle to focus on her face in front of me but my head is pounding and everything around me is one massive blur. "I can't," I moan, my voice harsh and raw as my hands desperately search for something to grab hold of. "It hurts. It fucking hurts!"
"I know it hurts, but you must keep still so I can remove it." Her hand strokes my trembling face, pushing back the hair from my forehead. "I am going to pull it out on the count of three. Can you hold still for that long?"
It takes a few seconds to process what she's saying, but then, with my eyes shut tight, I unclench my jaw with an effort and give a sharp nod. A firm hand pushes down on my knee and I bite back the agony screaming through my veins as I brace myself.
"One...two...three!"
With a sickening crunch, the stake is out and I practically keel over from the instant relief of pressure. But I must be delirious because as I force my eyes open to stare blankly down at the hole in my leg, I bark out a laugh. "That'll leave a mark."
"Stay still and hold this." She places my hand over a piece of cloth she's cut from her dress. It hurts like hell when she forces my hand down harder, but even with my limited experience with only basic first aid, I know I need to keep pressure on it to stop the bleeding.
Katniss gets to her feet, but I grab hold of her leg, clinging to it like a lifeline. "No! Don't leave me!" I beg, the desperation in my voice clear.
Kneeling back down, she brushes away the sweaty hairs that have fallen into my eyes again. "I am going to get water to clean the wound. I will not go far, and while I am gone, do not go to sleep. Do you understand?"
With a shaky nod, I pry my hand off her boot. She's gone in a flash, and my head falls back against the tree trunk, too heavy for my neck to support. Although it's a struggle to keep my eyelids from drooping, I stare up into the canopy of branches above me. I try my best to concentrate on the different shapes and colors of the leaves, making my mind work to identify what kind of trees surround me instead of focusing on the throbbing of my thigh.
True to her word, Katniss is back before I know it. I can't look when she peels away the bloodied cloth but the pulsing heat and pain are all I need to feel to know this isn't going to end well. "It's bad, isn't it?" I wheeze. "Just leave me here."
"You are not going to die," she says firmly as if berating a small child.
Her lack of sympathy laced with the pain makes my words come out clipped and angry. "How would you know?"
She just frowns at me for a while, then thankfully, ignores me and my snarling comment as she begins to empty her water skin over my thigh. The cool rush of water has me moaning with relief, and it takes a good eight or nine trips to the stream and back until she's satisfied. Cutting another clean piece of cloth from her dress, she instructs me to hold it in place again.
"I am almost done. I will be back."
This time when she returns, she's got a bunch of leaves and bark and some berries in hand. I can't look at my leg anymore, so I settle for her face instead. Brows narrowed and jaw locked in a determined line, she sets to chewing the bark and leaves while she grinds the berries between two stones. Mixing the chewed mush with the berries, she forms some sort of paste in her palm, then, motioning for me to remove my hand, packs it into the wound and surrounding area. If it wasn't for the instant relief upon contact, I'd be cringing at how unsanitary this has to be.
"That will do for now." Removing the belt from her waist, she wraps it tight around my thigh to keep the bandage in place. "Drink some water first," she says, lifting her water skin to my lips. "Then we must go."
I hesitate. I want my canteen, but it's all the way back at the cave and my parched mouth is dying for just a taste of the cool liquid on my tongue. Aw, screw it. This was bound to happen eventually. Tilting my head back, I let her pour the water down my throat. I don't think I've ever tasted anything so pure. With greedy fingers, I reach up to snatch the water skin out of her hands so I can drain it, but she's faster and pulls it away.
"Enough. I do not want to you get sick."
Even though I know she's right, I scowl. "Fine, help me up then." Taking hold of my outstretched hand, she pulls me upright. I can feel the color drain from my face the moment I put weight on my leg. "Katniss, wait!" Wincing, I hang onto her arm for dear life. "Just…just give me a minute."
"You can do this," she coaxes, propping me up on her shoulder. "Just think of our fire at home and a hot meal."
Interesting how when she refers to the cave as home—our home—it does funny things to my insides. But it's more than enough of an incentive to get me moving, however slow going it may be, as she practically drags me the entire way. I watch her covertly out of the corner of my eye, the lines of her face drawn taut and her frown determined.
I lose count of how many times I tell her to just cut her losses and leave me behind, but each time she grunts out her refusal and we seem to pick up the pace. And when she somehow manages to push and shove my body up the rocks and into the cave, it's nothing short of a miracle. It could be worse though; she could have actually listened and left me out there to die.
Surrounded by the safety of the cave walls, I try to hobble my way over to my pack and sleeping bag, but Katniss catches hold of my arm and half-guides, half-carries me over to her bed of furs. "Rest," she commands.
Sinking down into the plush layers, I turn my head to rest my cheek against her pillow and my eyes fall shut. The scent of her, woods and sweat, and something else I can't quite put my finger on settles over me like a blanket. Familiar and comforting. And despite the pain still rippling up and down my leg, I find myself smiling.
I must doze off, because the next thing I know there's a crackling fire burning and Katniss is kneeling next to me, mixing together another poultice of chewed leaves and berries. She's removed my boots and suit, leaving me in just my shirt and undershorts. It's then I wonder if my pants are ruined beyond repair. Probably, but that's the least of my concerns.
My body still feels like it's on fire, but when she places a hand to my forehead and doesn't say anything, there's a pretty good chance I'm imagining it all. Shock has a funny way of messing with your senses, so I'm learning.
"You are lucky," she eventually says, dabbing a wet rag around the wound. "No bones are broken and it did not hit a major life line."
Glancing up at her determined face, I blink rapidly. "A major what?"
Pausing, she straightens out her arm, presenting me with the underside of her wrist. She points to the bluish veins that branch out just beneath her skin, and I swallow back thickly as I nod.
"Then why was there so much blood?" She doesn't answer at first and when I look up at her face again, it seems like she's desperately trying to hold back a smile. Confused and a little frustrated, I grit my teeth. "You find this funny? I almost lose my only good leg and you feel the need to laugh about it?"
"No, of course not. It's just that…"
"What?" I bark, lifting up onto my elbows so I can glare at her better. "Go on, spit it out."
"That was not your blood."
I pause. That's not what I was expecting to hear. "Come again?"
"Not all of it, but most was juice from the berries. They were crushed by the blow."
"But...but there's a fucking hole in my leg!" I bellow, but then feel a pang of immediate remorse when she winces.
Again confused, but mostly embarrassed this time, I'm not completely convinced by her diagnosis. Brushing her hand away, I pull back the bandage and inspect the wound more closely. I can't see much beyond the dark green mash of leaves she's got pressed into it, but I don't think I'm bleeding anymore. Faint lines have started to feather out from the edges of the wound, but the pain has reduced to a dull throb. Much more manageable than before. My back and head though are another story.
"How do you know for sure that I'm not bleeding internally somewhere, or that there isn't any nerve damage?" At her confused expression, I clarify, "I mean, lost feeling in my leg."
"Before my mother fell ill and died, she was a healer," Katniss starts to explain, pressing a warm, wet cloth to my face. "She was one of the best in the village. I may not be the healer she was, but this is not the first time I have seen a wound like this."
Starting at my forehead, she works the damp cloth down my temples and cheeks with firm but gentle strokes. Then across my chin before tracing the column of my neck, across my collarbone and shoulders. Before I know it, I'm leaning into her touch, gazing up at her, my leg momentarily forgotten. I wonder if during these moments of weakness when my guard is down if she knows the effect she has on me. The effort it takes to hide how much I crave her touch. How much I want to reach out and touch her back.
Maybe it's because I'm suffering and in pain that she chooses to overlook my flip-flopping slew of emotions, but she's no longer hesitant with her smiles, gracing me with one that steals the very next breath from my lungs.
Somewhat placated by her confidence in her healing skills, I place the bandage back over the wound, allowing her to finish dressing it and securing it all with a knot on the side of my thigh. I consider asking her to get my pack, to check the contents of the first-aid kit to see if there's anything in there she can make use of. Then again, maybe it's not such a great idea to go ahead and mix her natural remedies with modern medicine. Who knows what the side effect could be.
My knee jerks violently when her fingers brush against the bottom of my foot. "Hey, that tickles!" The deadpan stare she throws my way takes a second to sink in. "Right," I mumble, realizing the point she just proved. "No nerve damage."
Lifting the furs back over my lap, she readjusts her position on the bed and sits cross-legged in front of me, her elbows balanced on her knees. There's a tempting view down the front of her dress and between her legs, but I force myself to keep my eyes glued to her face where she's staring back at me, thoughtful and hesitant at the same time.
With a shaky breath, I ask, "What is it?"
The corner of her mouth twitches, the whisper of an uncertain smile tugging at her lips. "I am at a loss with what to do with you," she says.
"Am I in trouble?" I ask, unable to stop the husky pitch of my voice.
"No, not yet at least."
I have no idea if she's talking about my leg or not, but what I do know is that if she doesn't move or cover herself soon, I'll legitimately be earning a reason to be in trouble with my desire to leer. I need to keep talking though, to keep my mind off my leg and…other things. Clearing my throat, I change the subject before I say something stupid. "So, what was that thing anyway?"
Thankfully, she scoots along the furs and leans back against the wall, her bare feet dangling over the edge. "A snare."
"And you didn't think to warn me about it?"
"You think this is my fault?" Exasperated, she crosses her arms over her chest and redirects her steeling gaze to the fire. "It was not one of mine! It was meant for a much larger beast."
I shut my eyes, pausing to gather my composure. "Hey, I'm sorry," I say, reaching over to tug on her sleeve. "I don't think any of this is your fault. You saved my life." She glances over then and I try to lighten the mood by adding in a sarcastic tone, "Again." That earns me a twitch of her lower lip, but I'll take it. It's a vast improvement over the scowling. Arching my lower back to get more comfortable, I let out a deep breath. "So I thought you said it was against the law to hunt the larger game?"
"As I am sure it is the same amongst your people," she starts, pushing up to her feet and moving towards her stockpile of food and storage containers. "Not everyone obeys the laws set out by the elders."
Huh, I shouldn't be surprised though. Within every society, no matter the race, sparks of rebellion are bound to show up somewhere.
I watch as she grinds more leaves and berries together, then adds them to a bowl of boiling water to make some sort of tea. "Here, drink this."
"What's it for?" Sitting up as much as I can, I stare into the dark liquid.
She taps a finger to her temple. "Your head."
A little wary, I bring the bowl up to my face and swirl the contents as I take a sniff. It's not offensive, so I take a tentative sip, expecting to gag from bitterness, but it's surprisingly sweet and so it's not a chore to drain every last drop in just a few gulps. Setting the bowl down, I sink back against the rolled-up furs she's placed behind me.
Katniss continues to mill about the cave, putting things away and stirring the fire, but every so often she peeks over at me, an expectant look on her face. I'm about to ask what's wrong, but the unusual slackness of my jaw makes that a little difficult.
For a split second, the cave seems like it's spinning and although I'm laying down, it feels like I'm struggling to keep my balance. My mouth is suddenly dry and my head feels fuzzy. It's as if someone's thrown a wet blanket over me, and when I squint to see Katniss approaching, I know her lips are moving but I can't hear a damn thing. "W-what?" I say, leaning forward, but now the rest of my body feels like it's being pulled under too.
Time and space lose meaning as a fog settles over my brain, muddling my thoughts. My eyelids droop when her face comes into focus, but I manage to keep them open just long enough to see her lips form three words.
I am sorry.
When I finally come to, something is different.
The pounding at the back of my skull has dulled to a distant pulse and my eyelids no longer feel like they're glued shut. In fact, when I pry them open, I'm met with no resistance and I blink in rapid succession. I focus on the ceiling and it's a welcomed relief that my body is no longer trying to crawl out of my own skin. When I test my limps, sliding them back and forth against the soft hairs of the bed, something else dawns on me. That softness? It's everywhere, and I mean, everywhere.
I don't have to lift the blanket to know that underneath, I'm as naked as the day I was born. Readjusting the furs over my lap, I take a moment to gather my strength before attempting to sit up. But when I reach out to find some leverage, my palm comes in contact with something unexpected. Sitting next to me is Katniss, and splayed out over her bare knee just inches away from the hem of her dress, is my hand.
"Shit, sorry," I croak, retracting my hand. My throat is scratchy and raw, even after swallowing a few times. It feels like I haven't used it in…wait a minute. Rubbing my fingers along my throat, I glance over at Katniss. "How long was I out?"
She's quiet, and if I'm not mistaken, looking a little miserable and a lot guilty. "Five days," she mutters.
"Five...days?" Meeting my gaze for only a second, that's all it takes to see the regret lingering in her eyes. Although my head's still a little hazy, I try my hardest to recall what the hell happened. "I remember my leg, you fixing it up, and then some sort of tea and then—wait, wait a minute...the tea...did you drug me?"
"I am sorry." Katniss leans closer, lifting a tentative hand toward mine, but she must think better of it and drops it back into her lap. "Please, do not be angry with me. I had to. Your wound, if left untreated, it would have…" Without finishing, she pushes up onto her feet and fills a bowl with water from the cooking pot.
"It would have what?" I ask, but I have an eerie feeling I already know where she was going with that statement. When my question meets nothing but an unblinking stare, I try again. "Please, Katniss, I'm not mad at you. Just tell me what happened."
And I'm really not mad. Confused, yes, and drained, but not mad. How could I be, when this woman standing in front of me has just saved my life a second time?
"Believe me," she starts solemnly, "if I did not put you to sleep, it would not have been pleasant."
Despite my nakedness, I tear back the blanket, making sure to keep some modesty by bunching it up over my privates. I'm not sure what I expect to find, but the relief of seeing my right leg still there, whole and intact, is enough to send the air rushing from my lungs. There's a fresh bandage covering the wound, and I hesitate before unwrapping the dressing to peek beneath it, looking up at Katniss for an explanation first.
"There was an infection," she states rather clinically, sitting down next to me with the bowl of water in one hand and a cloth in the other. "I had to burn away the ruined flesh and close the wound or else it would have spread until it overtook the rest of your leg."
Blowing out a breath, I steady my hand as I peel back the bandage. Okay. It's not as bad as I thought. I'm expecting a lot of blistering and raw, oozing flesh, but all I find is a red, puckered circle where there used to be a gaping hole in my thigh. It's a miracle, really, and now I'm staring back and forth between my leg and Katniss like she's just performed some sort of healing magic. "How?" is all I can manage to ask.
"Not magic," she says as if reading my thoughts, her lips curling into a tired smile. "But I am sorry for tricking you. How do you feel?"
"That's alright. Considering my other option, I understand why you did it." Grazing over the scar with a finger, I still can't believe how fast it's healing. I test the range of motion of my knee, bending it as much as I can, thrilled that there doesn't seem to be any residual damage. "It's a little sore, but bearable."
She hands me a water skin but the moment I bring it to my lips, I pause. Raising an eyebrow, I glance back at Katniss who shakes her head. "It is safe. I promise." To prove her point, she swipes it out of my hand and takes a swig, swishing the water in her mouth a few times before swallowing. She hands it back and I take a greedy gulp, and then another, before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "What was that anyway, in the tea?"
"Nightlock."
My eyes wide, they shoot up to hers. "Doesn't that cause...the sleeping death?"
With a shallow nod, she picks the cloth up and dips it into the water then dabs it along my forehead and down my temples. "The tea was very weak," she says, working her way along my jaw and towards my neck. "It was just enough to make you sleep. Knowing what had to be done, I could not bear to see you in more pain."
After wringing out the cloth, she dips it back into the water and sets to work on my shoulders, soothing the stiff muscles along the length of each arm then back up again with long, firm strokes. There's a certain familiarity with her movements as if she's done this before, but seeing how I've been dead to the world for almost a week and yet I don't smell as offensive as I should, she probably has.
I shudder when she reaches my chest, pausing for a fraction of a second longer when she runs the cloth over my stomach. I grab hold of her hand, stilling her movements when she tries to move lower towards my belly button, but she reprimands me with a click of her tongue.
"Be still," she orders.
Sucking in a breath, I comply. But soon the gentle strokes along my rib cage start to take on a different feel, no longer timid and innocent like they were at the start, but possessive almost, like she's trying to claim something. Does that even make sense?
Maybe whatever she's been giving me is still leaving my system and messing with my thoughts. But my head isn't the only thing she's messing with, a certain part of my body seems to agree with my first theory and stirs to life.
With as much discretion as I can possibly manage with her sitting right in front of me, I shift the blankets to cover my lap completely in a desperate attempt to adjust my now half-hard cock. If she notices, she doesn't let on, but I have to draw the line when she tries to pull back the blanket again.
Capturing her wrist in a firm but gentle hold, I pluck the washcloth from her. "Thank you, Katniss, really. But I think I can handle the rest."
She stares back at me, mouth open like she wants to say something, and maybe it's my drugged-up mind playing tricks on me again, but I swear a flicker of disappointment crosses her face. Then with a scowl and a huff, she flicks my hand away and stomps off towards the fire where she parks herself on the ground, her back to me as she busies herself with something I can't quite see.
Okay, what the hell was that about? And am I mistaken or did the temperature in here drop like five degrees? Must have, considering the cold shoulder I've just been given now looks pretty damn icy.
"Katniss?" Nothing, not a word or even a twitch of recognition. "Can you come back here please?" I ask, for some reason anxious to make things right even though I haven't the slightest clue as to what I've done wrong.
Was it something I said? Does she think I'm still mad for knocking me out?
"I swear I'm not mad," I add, just in case, but I'm only met with more silence. Mentally retracing my steps, I can't seem to figure out what I did to piss her off.
I take a long, steadying breath, the silence between us stretching out for minutes. But just when I'm about to give in and let her stew in her thoughts, she mumbles something. "What was that?" I ask.
Inclining her head over her shoulder, she speaks a little louder this time. "What does it matter? You no longer need me."
Alright, now I really have no idea where any of this is coming from or what she's even talking about. Not need her? Is she joking? If it wasn't for her, I'd have died two times already. And I wish she'd turn around; talking to a stiff back is going to get a little old fast.
"Why would you say that?" I frown, but of course, she doesn't see it and neither does she answer. Running a hand through my hair, I let out a frustrated sigh. "Of course I need you. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."
She mutters something again that I don't quite catch, but I know sarcasm when I hear it. Why won't she just tell me what I did wrong? Was it because I didn't let her finish washing me? Because, hell, if she's really that eager it's not like it'd be a hardship to endure—but then it hits me. If I want to get her talking, I'm going about this all the wrong way.
Pushing up onto an elbow, I make a point of groaning just a little too loud. "Okay, then, if you don't think I need you anymore, then I guess you're right. I'll just help myself up and find my clothes and then I'll be on my way—"
Katniss whips around, pinning me with a cutting glare. "Do not move."
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I school my features before she catches the smirk I'm desperately holding back. Keeping my eyes locked with hers, I pat the blankets around me as though I'm actually in search of my clothes. This, of course, gets me the exact reaction I'm looking for.
Casting aside the arrow she was apparently working on, she stalks towards me with fire in her eyes. "You will stay where you are or I will sit on you to keep you there."
After a threat like that, there's no holding back my smile anymore, and I just can't seem to help myself either. "Is that a promise?" That takes her off guard and her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. "Now, are you going to sit back down and tell me what this is really all about?"
With a sigh, Katniss settles back down beside me, tucking her legs beneath her. "It is not you I am mad at. It is me. It is my fault you were injured. I could not protect you and because of that, I almost lost…" Looking down, she's unable to finish that thought.
Ah, now I get it. This isn't about me. Well, not exactly.
I finally take a good look at her face, a really good look. The dark patches under her eyes. The disheveled braid. The streak of grime across her left cheek. All signs that I'm not the only one who's gone through hell over the past few days. She's exhausted.
"Katniss?" I ask, gently brushing the stray hairs from her face. "Are you okay?"
"I have not slept much," she admits. Then, heaving a heavy sigh, she drops her head into her hands. "It was wrong of me to lose my temper. I did not want to rest until your fever broke, but it took much longer than I hoped. I did not want to leave the cave either, only long enough to get water and check the snares once, and to dispose of the…" She trails off again and even I can fill in the blanks.
Hell, I can't bring myself to look at her, knowing that she's had to deal with my other less than appealing, um, involuntary bodily processes while I was unconscious. The woman deserves a fucking medal for all she's done for me and I wouldn't even know where to start paying her back. A measly "thank you" won't cut it.
"When you did not wake after the third day," she whispers, her voice soft and raw, "I feared you would not wake at all. That I had given you too much nightlock and that I'd—" She breaks off with a strangled gasp.
No one has ever cried over my well-being before, not even my own mother, who could barely stand to see me strapped to a recovery bed in sickbay for six weeks after the "accident". Or when she found out I'd been selected for the draft. Not a single damn tear was shed on my account. But there's no mistaking the wetness welling up in Katniss's eyes, and I feel an unwarranted mix of guilt and elation knowing that I'm the reason for her tears.
"Hey, it's alright."
Ever so slowly, I trickle my fingers down her arm before taking her hand in mine and squeezing it gently. But I don't stop there because it breaks my heart to see her beautiful face so guilt-ridden. I pull her to me, desperate to just hold her in my arms, but I don't dare let go when she sprawls across my chest, burying her face into my neck.
"I'm fine now, really," I say, although now I'm not quite sure who I'm trying to convince, her or me.
I know I'm walking a very thin line of control the moment her lips move against my heated skin to speak. "I had forgotten what it was like."
Swallowing thickly, I struggle to find my voice. "Forgotten what was like?"
Her head tilts up, eyes finding mine. "To care for someone."
When her gaze drops to my mouth for just a second, I can't help but moisten my own. And now I'm staring at hers, I know I am, focusing a little too hard on the thin space between her slightly parted lips. Tearing my eyes away, I distract myself by reaching up to trace her hairline with my fingers, nudging a few stray hairs away from her face.
"Peeta," she whispers. "I am tired of being alone."
As I stare into her tortured face, I find myself at a loss for words. Am I reading too much into this? No one's ever needed comfort from me before, so I'm not sure what to make of what's happening.
The rush of emotion, though, when she begins to map my face, trailing her fingertips over my eyebrows and down my cheeks, has me leaning into her touch, my skin desperate for the physical contact I've been craving for most of my life. Her thumb hovers over my bottom lip and the next thing I know, she's leaning forward, her breath fanning over my face as her mouth descends towards mine.
I'm too stunned at first to move, unable to process what's about to happen, or rather if this really is about to happen. Our lips have barely touched when she releases a breathy sigh and I can't help from echoing back the same sentiment. How long have I fought myself over this—shoving back the instant attraction I've felt since the moment I first laid eyes on her?
What starts out as a gentle, probing caress shifts effortlessly into an exploration of taste and texture, a teasing inquiry that causes electricity to course up and down my spine and my fingers to curl into her shoulders. This better not be some sort of fever dream, because if it is I sure as hell hope I never wake up.
Once again I find I'm at odds with myself, fighting back the urge to tangle my fingers through her hair, pull her fully on top of me and say fuck it to my fading self-control. There's no ignoring my erection that's trapped between our stomachs, or how one of my hands has drifted from her shoulder to the small of her back. But the moment her head tilts to test out a new angle, her knee shifts too, bumping up against my thigh. The stab of pain splashes over me like a bucket of cold water, a sobering validation of what this really is.
And what it's not.
For her, it's just an outlet. An expression of relief that I didn't die on her watch and that she doesn't have to live out the rest of her days with the guilt of accidentally killing me. For me, well, it's an opportunity to quench this inappropriate hunger I've been struggling to suppress, to give in to these urges that cause my heart to beat just a little bit faster whenever she's near.
So it's because of our differing motives that I reluctantly pull away before she goes and starts something she'll probably regret. But not before pressing my lips to her forehead in a tender kiss. She hovers there a while longer, eyes still closed as she presses her lips together like she's tasting them...and fuck if I don't get a little bit harder from the sight, even after everything my body's just been through. I want to kiss her again, damn it, but I content myself with rubbing my thumb along her dirt-streaked cheek.
When her eyes eventually open, I'm a little worried about what I'll find. Anger? Embarrassment? Regret?
Fortunately, I find none of these, but the tight smile she gives me as she reaches up to feel my forehead isn't exactly convincing. Despite the regret clenching my gut, I gather my tattered self-control and give her a pitiful, barely-there smile.
"Go to sleep," I whisper. "I'll wake you if I need anything." I see the reluctance in her eyes, as though if she closes her eyes for just a second, I'll disappear. "Katniss, you can't stay up forever."
Nodding, she finally gives in and eases herself down next to me, and to my surprise, curls into my side to rest her head on my shoulder. I hesitate for just a moment, mindful of her antlers which surprisingly enough aren't too much in the way. But having her warm body pressed up against mine feels all too good, so I allow myself to wrap an arm around her waist, fisting my hand to avoid placing it in dangerous territory. My skin tingles where our bodies touch, so to keep my mind from wandering as the pain in my leg slowly dissipates, I watch the moon and the stars through a crack in the rocks above the fire pit.
It doesn't take long for her breathing to even out and once I'm certain she's asleep, I tilt my head to take in her dozing features. She looks younger, innocent, despite the hardships she's had to face for someone her age. And I'm only tormenting myself when I brush my lips against her forehead, lingering just long enough to convince myself that this is the last time I'll give in. After this, I'm back on my best behavior.
But no more than five minutes later she whimpers in her sleep, the tips of her antlers digging into my skin as she twists her head and burrows further into my side. It's a bittersweet reminder of just how different we are, but then her lips move against my bare chest as she mutters something.
So much for good intentions.
Stifling a groan, I unfurl my fingers so I can trace my thumb back and forth along the curve from her waist to her hip. Eventually, her mumblings die down and her body goes soft against mine, but that doesn't stop my ministrations.
I should be worrying about the uncertainty of what's to become of me, my people, and this planet, but all I can seem to think about is how am I going to survive this woman?
Blowing out a heavy breath, I locate the brightest star in the sky and whisper, "I'm tired of being alone, too."
Author's Note: Yeah…I'll just leave you all with that :) Fun fact while researching this chapter:
- While researching what life would be like on a spaceship, I came across some pretty interesting theories, mostly about how subsequent generations would be able to remain self-sufficient with limited resources. There's a wide range of estimates on how many people would need to make it to colonize a new planet, but some seem to think 40,000 is a safe guess for the estimated five-generation trip to the nearest possible habitual planet. This might seem like a lot but apparently, it would account for increased inbreeding, depressed genetic diversity, and at least one severe population catastrophe.
Big thanks to my beta team, court81981 and titaniasfics, who have been my supportive companions during the lonely writing of this story, and to loving-mellark for pre-reading and cheering me on when motivation was dwindling. Many thanks to those who have read and reviewed the first two chapters. I value your feedback and hearing your thoughts makes writing worthwhile!
As always, you can find me over on tumblr: pookieh