Only days after Finnick's little guy was born their brigade was sent south, to assist in a massive bushfire burning out of control near Nowra. Peeta had barely slept the previous couple of days, haunted by silver-grey eyes filled with pain, pain he knew he was responsible for inflicting. But he answered the call, despite his exhaustion, despite his dented heart and the guilt of seeing her standing in her bedroom window for hours, watching for him. Because Finnick was on parenting leave, and the rest of the guys needed Peeta. Depended on him. And maybe he'd let Katniss down, by asking too much, by not being able to be what she needed. But he could at least be there for his crew.
Though the drive down to the south coast wasn't long, it gave Peeta far too much time to think.
He felt awful that Finnick had missed his babe's birth. As soon as they got word, Peeta had driven him back to Panem in the command vehicle, lights flashing and sirens screaming. But they'd been too late, the nearly five hour drive from Wollemi National Park just too far. The man himself was pragmatic. He'd been a firie for a decade and had married a doctor, they were used to the unpredictable schedule and the calls that wrecked weekend plans. And they were grateful for the community that stepped in when one of them needed help.
Grateful for Peeta. So grateful, they'd asked him to be godfather.
Peeta had longed to share that news with Katniss, but he couldn't. He'd been twice to see baby Nick, carefully timing his visits around Katniss's work schedule, so he wouldn't bump into her. But her presence was all around him anyway. In the stories that Annie told him about how perfect Katniss had been in the birthing room, in the giant bouquet of flowers on their coffee table that he knew without a doubt she'd sent. In the pictures on Annie's phone of his silver-eyed angel holding the tiny bundle and beaming like a lighthouse.
He hadn't worked out all week, he couldn't, knowing she was watching for him. But he'd been unable to to keep himself from looking for her anyway, from peeking through the upstairs blinds. And he'd seen her each evening, keeping vigil by her bedroom window, just a lonely silhouette. A candle in the window. An invitation. But one he couldn't bring himself to take.
He knew he'd been wrong, pushing Katniss away like he had. But Finnick was right, he was bloody petrified to put himself on the line, to hear once and for all from the only lips he'd ever loved that he wasn't worth staying for.
Love. It killed him to admit to himself that he'd fallen in love with Katniss.
o-o-o
The fire was fierce, and seemed insurmountable. Sweat ran down Peeta's back in rivulets and his skin felt braised, even through the equipment. His muscles ached, and his spirits flagged and there was no end in sight. They were five rural brigades from all across the southern part of NSW, experienced and well-trained. But they were losing this battle. Orders were near constant through Peeta's two-way, status updates each more bleak than the one before.
He wasn't even surprised when his group captain's voice came over the comms. "Turn around," Jasper barked. "We're being overrun."
They piled into the pumper, Peeta, Jasper and four other members of their crew. There were four pumpers all together, bouncing single file along the rutted rural road, driving through hell. Peeta's truck brought up the rear.
The flames encroached, closer and closer, embers cascading over the truck. There was no sprinkler safety system in the machine, they were beyond vulnerable. Radiant heat turned the cabin into an oven, almost unbearable. "Put your breathing gear back on," Jasper told them. They bumped along, tense and without speaking, only the radio and the roar of the flames.
One of the trucks ahead stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, and Peeta watched in horror as men fled from it, running alongside the flames and climbing into other pumpers. "Fuck," Kyle, another brigade member mumbled from his spot beside Jasper as he eased by the abandoned rig, knuckles white on the wheel..
Closer and closer the flames came. "Fire's on the road already," Jasper said into the radio. They couldn't even see the pumper ahead of them anymore. It was as if they were completely alone.
Peeta stared hopelessly out the window. It was apocalyptic. The bush was nothing but fire, an otherworldly pink-orange glow, and intensely hot. He grabbed a fire suppression blanket, hoping to shield them. "Jasper," he yelled to the man seated in front of them. "Jasper, put the blanket up." Between them, they managed to drape the blanket over the windows, but it offered little in the way of protection.
This could be it, Peeta thought. This could be the end.
He wasn't afraid, not really. You couldn't be a firie and not be prepared for death. But he was overwhelmed with regret. He was going to die here without ever telling Katniss that he loved her. Their fight and his fears seemed so small, so petty now. He shouldn't have run off. He shouldn't have been so petulant, so wounded.
He should have fought for her.
If they managed to get out of this mess, he would fight for her. He'd follow her to Canada, if he had to, he'd court her, he'd prove himself. He'd tell her over and over that he loved her, until she caught up.
If they lived.
"Crikey," Kyle said. The flames were licking the side of the pumper, Peeta could smell the acrid stench of melting rubber thick in the cabin, even through his breathing apparatus. They weren't going to make it, he thought grimly.
It happened in an instant, the flames surrounded them completely. "Flashover, flashover!" Jasper yelled into the radio. Flashover—when the air gets so hot that everything explodes into flame. They were in the bowels of hell, surrounded by fire on every side, in the centre of the inferno.
One of the men behind Peeta started reciting the rosary.
"Keep going," Jasper told Kyle, but there was a resignation in his voice, hopelessness tempered only by years of training and innate leadership skills. "Keep going…"
o-o-o