She's awake before the sun rises. It should be up soon, if the color of the sky is any indication. Of course, she's not sure she slept at all, she was up so late last night, making lists in her head. Trying to figure out just what she's going to need in order to make this work, taking care of Peeta.
Not that she'd refer to it as taking care of Peeta in front of him. He probably wouldn't be happy with that. And while she's sure, objectively, that it's a good idea for everyone involved, him being her baker, it wasn't because she craved fresh bread that she made the deal with him last night.
And, as she decided last night, she has work to do. So, carefully, she picks through her dresser, looking for the plainest pieces of clothing she can find. The ones that are either not clearly identifiable as being from the Capitol or that are from Twelve. From before. Once she's dressed – in a pair of mended jeans and a dark green top that she can cover completely with her father's jacket once she gets downstairs. Satisfied with her outfit, she tucks her braid up into a cap and stands in front of the mirror, looking herself up and down. She generally avoids the huge mirror that hangs above her dresser, but today she doesn't have much of a choice. It's a halfhearted attempt at a disguise, really, but she thinks that it'll work well enough, since she hasn't been discovered the other times that she's snuck out to Town, and she's never gotten muchfancierthan this.
It's funny, it feeling like sneaking. She's not really a prisoner in her home in the Victor's Village, no matter how much it may seem that way when it comes to leaving.
And then there are the empty days she spends staring at the fire just to have something to look at. With the costumes she uses when she leaves the house. Or, well, they're not exactly costumes. Just outfits carefully chosen to hide the Capitol persona that it takes for people to recognize her.
Of course, the Capitol version of Katniss Everdeen is quite a sight. Even though they couldn't do any remakes on her without her stylist's consent while she was under eighteen. And though Katniss was intent to hate the woman, she couldn't help but to appreciate it when she said that Katniss' body was a worthwhile challenge. That it felt like cheating, working around her nose or - worst, in the eyes of the Capitol - her small breasts.
Of course, by the time she was of age, they had all moved on. Past the Quell and onto the new victors.
Pretty, trained boys and girls from the career districts. With stylists who allowed the Capitol to straighten their noses or enlarge the girls' breasts. Kids who had their teeth filed down to resemble fangs. A permanent reminder of what happened inside the arena. Just the thought makes Katniss shiver. It's not likely that they had much say in the matter - these things have a tendency to be decided for the victors, after all.
It's the closest thing she's had to a piece of luck in years - maybe ever - that they haven't done anything permanent to her. But every time she winds up in the Capitol, they coax some beautiful, hairless, shimmering girl out of her. She wonders if that's who Peeta expects he's living with.
Maybe that's why he was so startled yesterday, some voice says dryly in her head. She knows that's not it, but the thought pulls her lips into something almost like a smile. In District Twelve, she gets to look average. That's why it's amusing, the idea of people expecting her to walk around wearing flames, like she did for her opening ceremonies.
Maybe they do. It clearly works to her advantage, since just a hat and a plain outfit can make her practically disappear. Until she pulls the money out of her pocket, that is.. A little leather pouch heavy with coins or – worse – carefully folded bills. A rarity in District Twelve. It always gives her away when she pays with them. The people who see her bills always raise their eyebrows and then turn on some sickly sweet charm. As if she wasn't already paying for their goods.
She makes them uncomfortable. It's to be expected. But that doesn't make it easier to take.
Katniss creeps into the hallway, grateful for her quiet footsteps when she notices that the door to the room she led Peeta into last night is wide open. She isn't sure why. Maybe he didn't realize he was allowed to close the door. Or he thought she might like to keep an eye on him. But that seems silly. She'll need to remember to tell him that he's allowed his privacy.
Another entry on her to-do list. Shoved between taking a shower and buying food.
And though she fully intends to give him his privacy, she ends up lingering by the doorway. Peeta is huddled on one side of the bed, blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders. The open window is clearly contributing to the cold, so she's not sure why he has it open. He must have a reason. Was the house too warm when they said their goodnights? She didn't think so, but then, she's used to this place. Peeta isn't. And he's only the second person to ever even spend the night here. Her escort and her prep team always spend their evenings in one of the other homes in the Victor's Village. The ones that have been waiting twenty five years, like hers, but those ones haven't been moved into yet. She thinks it's possible that they'll stay empty. Of course, she thought that her house would stay empty. And yet there Peeta is, lying in the bed, sleeping soundly, even if he does look cold.
And now that she's thinking about it, she doesn't think that he'd be comfortable telling her he was cold. Not after how hard it was on him to accept help last night. Asking for it must be unthinkable.
She knows how that feels.
She forces herself to move on. To try not to be distracted by the fact that he's in there. But it's so strange to have to be silent in this house. To try not to wake someone up. For someone to be there to wake up.
She finds herself lost in thought for a moment. Transported to a different time. When she had to sneak away to Town for Prim's sake. To pick things up while her father was at work and her mother was stealing a few extra moments of sleep after a late night tending to a patient.
Better thinking about that than about the arena. She did all of her hunting and exploring before dawn there, as well. She gives her head a firm shake, remembering how rattled this line of thinking got her yesterday. Not a tribute. You are not a tribute.
Even though she knows from last night that there's nothing in the kitchen she roots around, hoping to find something to leave out for Peeta to eat for breakfast. No such luck, of course. The cabinets are barren, save for the last bit of a bag of flour, folded in on itself.
She knows better than to pretend that this boy cares for her when he doesn't. But she can picture him being startled, waking to find himself all alone in this great big house, if he doesn't realize she's gone. Or at the very least, if he doesn't realize why he's alone. So she finds a piece of paper and a pencil and tries to convince herself that it's worth it to write a note.
If she gets home before he wakes, like she's hoping she will, she can always just throw the note away. But it seems right, leaving something for him, just in case he worries.
That's a strange thought, someone being worried about her. It feels a lot like hope, and it's ridiculous. She doesn't allow herself that luxury anymore. And why should Peeta worry about her, for that matter?
Only, she's jolted back to the Justice Building. To trembling hands and shy glances and -
She gets to work on her note.
Peeta,
Gone to town.
Be back with food soon.
- Katniss.
And then, with one last stop to check that she has her keys, she pulls her father's jacket on and leaves, stopping to lock the door behind her.
The Hob is more crowded than she expected for it to be. She's jostled a few times, from men that she thinks must be miners – it's Sunday? The thought is strange. But then, her days haven't held much significance for a while, now. She tries to come up with something that places yesterday as being Saturday but comes up short.
It still feels so strange, being in the Hob without her father. She's been by a few times since she came home from the Games. But it's felt just as strange every time. Because though she knows it's not right, it feels like every eye is on her. But this morning, they're all talking amongst themselves, and she feels jealous. Because she misses it. That sense of community that her father estranged himself from, even just slightly, by carrying her in on his shoulders when she was little.
It's so strange. So lonely. She fists the fabric of her father's jacket, her hand ending up somewhere near her heart. It hurts, just like it always does when her father's presence is unavoidable. This terrible, unnamed ache.
She doesn't need to save her money. She would be set for life after just the few years of payments from the Capitol she's received from winning her games. But it's an old habit, saving money for a rainy day. She only realizes what she's doing when she finds herself eyeing a patched coat with Peeta in mind.
No. She can't get around going to the Square. While she could buy shirts here, they would be in much worse shape than what she could get from the tailor. And for some reason she can't quite place, she doesn't want to present Peeta Mellark with tattered clothes. Not with how embarrassed he seemed over the rip in the back of his shirt last night. So once she's finished buying game and ingredients, she leaves the relative safety of the Hob. The one place that she knows isn't packed with people who more than likely chose her name when the Reaping approached. She swallows hard, steels herself, and heads for Town.
The man in the shop who offers to help her doesn't do it because he knows she's a victor. She hears what he's trying to tell her. Not the cordial what can I help you with, ma'am? But rather you're Seam and I see you. So she reaches up and takes her cap off, stuffing it into her bag and letting her braid fall against her back.
"Just looking," she answers, reveling in the moment where he fully understands who she is. What she's doing here. She goes through the piles of clothing, setting shirt after shirt aside. Button down shirts, made of all sorts of materials. Thick and warm. Soft and light. Then she finds long sleeved thermals. And short sleeved cotton shirts. Hopefully it will hurt less, seeing him in all of this, than seeing him in her father's clothes.
And besides, maybe he'll be more comfortable in something of his own.
There. That makes her feel less selfish about this whole thing.
Satisfied with the shirts she's selected, she sets them on the counter and gets back to work, finding pants this time. It's a little bit harder to size those. But along with a couple of belts, she decides that it's good enough. That she'll come back, if they don't fit. And maybe even bring Peeta with her, so that the man can take his measurements and make things specifically for him, like her stylist in the Capitol does.
Then she finds underthings for him, as well. The necessity of the situation outweighs the burning in her cheeks, but just barely. She can feel the shopkeeper's eyes on her. Knows that this will be a source of gossip, Katniss Everdeen buying men's underwear in Town. Only, she can't bring herself to care, exactly. Especially not when she finds socks. Warm, wool socks. Thick enough to keep his feet warm in her cold house. She thinks of him, wrapped tightly in the quilt, and buys more pairs than he'll need.
The man avoids meeting her eyes, but she sees the way his eyebrows lift at the sight of the clothes on the counter all the same. "Will this be all for you?" he asks, and his voice is close to joking. But the smile falls off of his face when her eyes snap up to look at him with what must be a glare. She will not be made into a joke. And - maybe more importantly - neither will Peeta, even if it is just by association.
The bakery is next, and when she walks in and cancels her standing order, Mr. Mellark is more than a little bit concerned. Quiet even in the best of times, he sputters and speaks softly, wondering where she's going to be getting her bread. Her muffins. Her cookies. He says that last bit like it's something crucial.
She decides that she hates him.
All this time, she had thought that he was a quiet man who married a cruel woman. But now, as she wonders where his concern is for the man's own son, she realizes that the baker may be just as bad. Where would Peeta be getting his bread, if Katniss didn't find him in the woods? If she didn't convince him to stay in her house and bake for her? She doesn't say all that, though. Just gives him a curt nod and says, "I've found another baker."
There. Let him figure that one out! She strides out of the bakery and into the Square, wondering why it feels so good, being free of the older Mellarks when the youngest one is waiting at her house.
The butcher is next. Katniss buys everything that the woman will sell her and wonders what it might be like to go hunting. If she would even remember how to hold her bow after all this time.
"Could you deliver?" Katniss asks, struck by an idea. The bakery won't be headed to the VIctor's Village anymore, but it seems reasonable to think that another business might accept a little extra money to do something like that. "If I made a standing order, would you be able to have it sent to my house?"
"I suppose I could arrange something," Rooba says with a wink. "Gotta keep our victor fed, don't we?"
The comment is meant to be harmless, likely. But it makes Katniss' stomach turn all the same. She's out of the door so quickly that she nearly forgets her game.
"Katniss!" a familiar voice says from across the square, and Katniss closes her eyes tightly. Focusing on taking deep, even breaths. And, above all, wishing desperately that she could disappear.
"I thought that was you," Madge continues, oblivious to Katniss' inability to get the air that she so desperately needs. Though, when Katniss cracks an eye open, Madge looks a little bit shy. That's to be expected. Even if Katniss and Madge sat together at school once upon a time, that was when they were young. Things have changed since then. Last Katniss heard, Madge was engaged to some town boy – Peeta's brother? No. That can't be right.
She hopes it isn't right, at least. Because then there are at least two more people who could have helped him – should have helped him – that haven't.
But this isn't about Peeta. And even if Madge wasn't married, Katniss is a killer, as Rooba just so conveniently reminded her. It's to be expected for her old friend not to know what to say to her. Of course, Katniss isn't entirely sure if they were ever friends. She waited in the room at the Justice Building after her family was forced to leave, but Madge never came. She tries to convince herself that she can't hold that against her. That no one, really, outside of her family could bring themselves to visit her.
Except for Peeta.
"It's good to see you," Madge continues.
Is it? Katniss doesn't answer. Just adjusts the strap of her bag and gives her a fake smile. The kind she's perfected for her Capitol audience, who want her to be happy but don't care, really, if she is or not.
"How are you doing?"
There's no right answer to that question. No honest answer that Madge wants to hear, anyway. So she just shrugs. "Fine. How are you? Is it true that you got married?"
"It is," Madge says, and she looks a little bit sheepish. "We wanted to invite you but . . ." that sentence doesn't have an ending.
"I know," Katniss says. "It's fine." She's not the sort of person you invite to a wedding. In fact, sometimes it's like she's not a person at all. Instead, winning the games - or being elected for them in the first place - has turned her into some sort of wild, unwanted creature. It's not hard to remember why she tries not to go into town. "How was it?"
"It was good . . ." Madge looks unsure. "His youngest brother decorated the cake. It was just beautiful. Like something out of a party in the Capitol."
His youngest brother. Peeta. Peeta decorated Madge's wedding cake. And it was beautiful, but he was still kicked out of his house. "I have to go to the grocer," Katniss announces suddenly, hoping that Madge will take a hint.
She doesn't, of course. "I'll come with you! That is, if you don't mind having some company."
"Okay," Katniss lies.
"I was running some errands, myself. It gets so lonely around the house when Dylan is working."
It's an innocent enough statement, but it reminds Katniss of just how much time she spends alone, and wonders if she's supposed to mind it. "Does he work a lot, then?" Katniss asks. Maybe Madge's chattering will quiet Katniss' pounding should have waited until Peeta could come to town with her. That would have worked well enough. Even with him underfed, she could hide behind him. Use him as a shield. Though something tells her that if going home isn't an option for him, as he said last night, well. Maybe he'd be even less welcome than she is here.
She listens to Madge, but it doesn't help. So she focuses on the task at hand. She buys grain and eggs and everything that she can imagine needing or wanting. Or – more importantly – that she can imagine Peeta wanting or needing.
"Well, you're getting ahead on your shopping," Madge jokes, and Katniss swallows hard.
"Yeah, I guess I just . . . got behind," she says.
The other girl's relief at Katniss participating in the conversation is obvious, even if she does try to hide it. They never talked at lunch. Katniss wonders why she wants to talk now. If it's a challenge, of some sort.
"I should be getting back," Katniss says once it's arranged for her things to be delivered.
"Okay," Madge says. "Just . . . take care of yourself, Katniss. We're worried about you, you know. All alone in that great big house."
"You're looking well," Madge says as they head for the Victor's Village. Is she? Katniss makes a noncommittal noise and suddenly regrets accepting her offer to help carry her things. She should have just come back for the rest.
"I've missed you," Madge says. She sounds honest enough, but everything inside of Katniss is screaming that it's a lie. "We're worried about you, you know. All alone in this great big house."
"I'm not alone," Katniss protests, her voice closer to a grumble than she means for it to be. "I have a cat." Why is she explaining herself? "And a baker."
"A baker?" Madge echoes. Katniss doesn't respond. "I guess I'll see you later, Katniss."
She doesn't realize that her hands are shaking until she goes to put her jacket up and realizes she can't grip it quite right. So she gives up on taking it off and looks towards the stairs, trying to route her escape plan, but then she hears movement and freezes.
Peeta. Right. Her trip to town took longer than expected, and there's no way that anyone used to keeping baker's hours would be sleeping for so long. She picks her bags back up and heads for the kitchen. He's there. Standing at the sink and scrubbing at a pot that hasn't been washed since she first moved into the Victor's Village.
She clears her throat, and just like yesterday, when she found him in the woods, he jumps. The dirty dishwater splashes up, and when he turns to look at her, his shirt is nearly soaked.
"You don't have to do that," she says, and her voice is hoarse. He stops instantly, stepping back and grabbing a rag from the countertop, so he can wipe his hands off.
"Did you . . .? Did you not want me to?" he asks, voice unsteady. "I meant – I wanted to wake up early and make you breakfast. And, ah, I am so sorry that I didn't. I was . . . there's no excuse. It was irresponsible of me. Really irresponsible. And –"
He keeps talking, but she can't focus. All she can do is watch his lips moving. He's watching her carefully, but then every time she manages to catch his eyes, they dart away. It's a wonder that she can hear him over the pounding in her ears.
"I . . . I can promise that it won't happen again. I swear it won't. And, ah. I suppose it's bold, assuming you'll still have me. But I did – I did manage to make myself useful today." He laughs, but she can't bring herself to return it.
"There's some flour on the porch," she says. "And – I got some things," she says, dropping her bags onto the table. They fall heavily and Peeta glances from the bags up to her. Maybe realizing that something is wrong. But thankfully, he doesn't say a word.
She finds herself hidden in the closet. Legs covered with the patched, worn fabric of the blanket that she hastily snagged from the bed. She isn't cold, but she's shaking. Shivering, maybe. She pulls the blanket up to her throat.
She's sobbing, now. Miserable cries that rip through her body and leave her gasping for air. Why can't she breathe? She wonders if she could be running out of oxygen, holed up in this closet the way she is. Only, it's too big for that. And she's all the way back. Hidden among the silky gowns hanging there. Remnants from her time in the Capitol. That doesn't help matters. She scampers to the other side of the closet, trying to control the noises that are escaping.
She hates this. Hates this feeling of weakness that comes with the shaking. How out of control she feels. And when it – finally – passes, she sinks to the bottom of the closet, grateful for the blanket, and succumbs to the heaviness of sleep.
When she finally emerges, she's stunned to see a glass of water on her bedside table. She might think it was old, if not for the condensation that she sees as she gets closer. And besides, weren't most of her glasses dirty just this morning? The ice has melted – assuming there was ever any in there. But as she gulps the water down, it's cool and fresh. She flushes when she catches the implication behind this glass of water. Peeta left this water for her. He knows she's been hidden away in the closet. And she can't even be angry with him for invading her privacy. She left the bedroom door open in her haste to get to the closet.
He's probably been sitting downstairs this whole time. Listening in. Wondering what in the world is wrong with her. If he figures it out, she wants to know the answer.
Her bed looks inviting. And she wants badly to crawl in. To pull the blanket up over her. Again. But then she realizes with a funny little pang that she hasn't fed Peeta yet today. So she drops the old blanket onto the bed – on top of the fancy, Capitol provided comforter.
She heads down the stairs, holding onto the railing tightly and breathing in deeply when she realizes that it's food she's smelling. When she sneaks into the kitchen, she recognizes the loaves on the table instantly. Thick, hearty raisin nut bread. With a thick, dark crust. The kind he gave her that day in –
"I hope chicken pot pie is okay," Peeta says softly. "I figured that, you know. It's got a crust. And, as your baker, I've gotta prove I'm good with those, right?"
"It sounds great. And smells great, too. So does the bread," she admits, and he ducks his head at the praise. "But as far as proving goes –" she stops herself just short of saying that she's had enough of his bread from the bakery to know that he's a good baker. "This sounds like a great way to do it."
He peers up at her with a little smile. "I was – well, I thought about throwing together some mashed potatoes. But that's, well, that's a lot of starch. So, ah. Some other time. Unless . . . unless you want them."
"No. I'm fine," she assures him with a little smile. "How long until dinner will be ready?"
"Whenever you are!" he says, just a little bit too quickly. "It's warming in the oven now. I wanted to make sure it was still good."
"I'm sure that it will be," she says. "I'll set the table."
"I did that, too," Peeta says, looking somewhat shy. "Which reminds me! Where did you want your clothes? I set the bag on one of the chairs, for now. But that's surely not where you want it."
"My clothes?" she echoes. "No, Peeta. They're not – I should have said something earlier. The bag is for you."
He stares at her, eyes wide in disbelief. His mouth opening and closing in what must be protest. She's not sure why. "You didn't have to do that," he finally manages. sounding small and unsure.
"Well, maybe I wanted to," she says. "You are my baker now, after all."
He turns beet red. "I'll go change, then."
"No. No rush," she says. "I'm going to have to wash them. But they are for you."
"I'll get dinner, then," he says, giving her a tiny nod and heading towards the stove. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks. "I already put some water on the table. But if you want something else . . . ?"
"Water is good. Thank you," she says.
He nods.
There's only one plate waiting at the table. He dishes the pot pie out and even pulls the chair out for her. And she stares at the seat beside her, visible in the candlelight. "Peeta," she says. "Are you not eating with me?"
He freezes, his eyes wide. "I thought – I mean, I figured . . . you know."
"What did you think?" she asks.
He swallows hard and looks away.
"Peeta," she presses.
"I didn't – I didn't think you'd want me to eat with you," he says. "Didn't want to assume."
"Well, I do," she says. And when he goes to protest, she holds a hand up to stop him. "Please, Peeta. From now on, feel free to assume. I've had enough dinners alone."
That settles it. He gives her a tiny, grateful smile and comes back with a second plate.
She closes her eyes when she takes the first bite, as if that's going to help her focus on the taste. He's made something incredible. Heavy and rich and better than anything she's had in this house. Much better than anything the Capitol could manufacture and put into a can. Better than anything she could ever make. Not that she's put too much effort into cooking for herself, as of late.
"Is it any good?" he asks, sounding nervous.
It's good. More than good, really. And though she can see her silence being unsettling, she's been shoveling food into her mouth from the moment he's sat down. "Didn't you try it?" she asks.
He looks down. She follows his gaze and notices that he hasn't taken a bite of his serving yet. Maybe that's why he's afraid it's no good. "Um, no."
"It's amazing," she assures him. "The best thing I've had in a long time."
His next exhale sounds a lot like a relieved sigh. "I'm glad you like it," he admits.
She wants to tell him more. But she isn't good with words in the best of times, and right now, none are coming to mind other than vague little fragments. Especially when she reaches forward and dares to take a piece of the bread. Peeta has already cut it, and the heels of the loaf have been placed at the other end of the plate that it sits on. So she takes the closest piece and spreads the smallest bit of butter onto it.
But the bread would have likely been just as incredible without the butter. Again, her eyes slide shut at the taste. There's a certain warmth to it that she doesn't think she could describe if she tried. But she doesn't try. She just takes another bite. And another, and another. And it's as though there's something different to taste each time. Cinnamon. Raisins. Nuts that compliment the flavors perfectly.
"The bread, too," she says, finally glancing over at him. When he smiles, it doesn't seem forced at all. But the pot pie in front of him is mostly finished, but not completely, and judging by the way he's laid the spoon on the plate, she thinks he's finished. "It's really good."
"I'm glad you like it," he says. "I wasn't sure what to make, honestly. And there's some dessert, as well. Just, whenever you're ready for it."
"You made dessert?" she asks.
"I'm your baker," he says, offering her a tiny smile. "They're just, um, some little tartlets. So, if you don't want them tonight, they should keep pretty well in the icebox. At least, until you're ready."
"They sound great," she says.
"I'll go get them," he says, standing up before she can protest.
The desserts he brings out are tiny. Delicate and gorgeous, with carefully arranged fruit on top of each little cup. "Oh," she breathes.
"I hope they're okay," he says. "I thought it fit with the theme. Relatively close to a pie crust, right?" he jokes. "But, um. Like I said, they're tartlets. And I thought you might like them."
He sits down and nudges the plate towards her.
"Did you not want one?" she asks, taking one of the fragile sweets in her hand.
"Oh. I, ah," he hesitates, but then reaches for one. "Thank you."
"You made them," she reminds him. "But you're welcome."
She's on her second before she realizes that he's still holding about half of his. "Did you not want more?" she asks, already thinking about going back for more, herself. "I can't eat them all, you know. Much as I'd like to."
He looks away. "Oh. I, ah. I'm sorry to say I really overate last night. And I'm not . . . really feeling too well."
He is looking a little green. She frowns, remembering how sick she felt on the train after the reaping. How she wasn't used to eating until she was full, let alone eating food that was so rich.
"But don't let me stop you!" he says. "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head. Resists the urge to reach over and feel his forehead with the back of her hand, like she would for Prim, if her sister were to admit to feeling sick. "Don't be sorry. Do you need to go lie down?"
He straightens up. Sets his last bite on his plate. "I have some dishes to finish up," he says. "I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me. Really."
She tries to be assured by that, but she can't quite find it in her. So she carries the candle over towards the sink and insists on working at the dishes while he wraps the leftovers and sets them in the refrigerator. It's easier now, loading them up.
"All finished," she says with a cheer that's false but probably what Peeta needs to hear. She's exhausted. "I'm going to put your clothes in the wash. Do you need anything?"
"I don't. Need anything, I mean," he says, sounding like it's a promise. "Well, except, could I maybe take another shower?" he asks. "I'm sorry. It's just . . ."
"Don't be sorry," she says. "You remember where it is?"
He nods.
"Then have at it," she says. "Anytime you want one. Do you need a change of clothes?"
He shakes his head. "Oh, no. That's fine!" he says. "I'll just use what you gave me last night." That's when she realizes he's wearing the clothes she found him in. He must have taken them out of the laundry room. "Thank you, Katniss. Really."
She nods.
Once she's alone and the washing machine is running, she sits in her favorite rocking chair and contemplates building a fire. She wants to, at least. Only, she doesn't feel like getting up. Not really. She doesn't want to disentangle herself from the grey blanket that she's cocooned her legs in. So instead, she just stares at the fireplace, thinking about her fire. The one she knows, deep down, she won't get around to starting.
This is her favorite place in the whole Victor's Village. This chair that's been waiting for her since before she was a victor, made of white wood. It never would be in place in the Seam, but maybe in a merchant's house, something like this could be built. Gliding back and forth, back and forth. Barely taking any power at all for her to set in motion. Something comforting about it. She's spent countless hours in this chair since she came back from the arena. And though she wanted badly to hate everything in the house in the Victor's Village that waited for her, stark cold and empty and lonely, she had kicked at the furniture. Had sobbed and wailed and eventually, after spending hours in a heap on the floor, she had tried to head for a bedroom. For a bed. Only, she hadn't made it all the way to the stairs. She fell in the chair.
Actually, the twin of the chair she's in now. There were two waiting in the house, but she managed to destroy one of them in a fit of anger a few nights later.
She's not sure how long she stays there. Long enough to hear Peeta moving around upstairs. Long enough for her to hear the silence when he falls asleep.
And long enough to get so absorbed in her thoughts she doesn't hear him come back down until he clears his throat behind her.
"Just me," he says when she startles. "Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just me." He creeps around, into her line of sight, holding a mug out towards her. "Here," he says shyly. "It's – I made hot chocolate."
"Thought you were sleeping," she says, her voice cracking. She forces her lips up into a smile when she notices how uncomfortable he looks and takes a drink, to calm soothe Peeta's nerves just as much as to soothe her throat.
"It's good, thank you," she says. And it's true. It is good. But Gale's voice is in her head, warning her about what all of the Capitol luxuries really meant, just as he did on the train those years ago, when they we were being carted into the Capitol like sheep to the slaughter, and she came out in the morning to find her district partner and her escort locked in a staring contest across the table.
"Oh, thank goodness you're here," Effie Trinket had said, looking genuinely relieved when she locked eyes with Katniss. "This boy just won't eat. I keep on telling him that it could only help him, putting some weight on before the games. And that's not even to mention how much better all of this is than anything you could have had for breakfast in Twelve."
Gale's eyes flicked up towards her as she stared down at the mug that waited for her at the table. "It's called hot chocolate. Can you believe it?"
"It's delicious," Effie assured her. "Try it."
She did, biting back a little groan at the warm, velvety drink that's been waiting for her. She didn't know this sort of thing even existed. What little she knew about coffee was that it was thin and bitter, and while her mother had a taste for it and her father tried to get it for her when he could – a reminder of her merchant days, even though it was worthless and more often than not, he couldn't pull it off. But this – this was something else entirely.
And Gale stared at her like she was a traitor as she licked the chocolate from her top lip.
"What?" she asked. He shook his head.
"Don't you see it?" he asked. "They're trying to distract us. To make sure that we forget why we're really here. They want us to get lured in by the food and the bright lights. And –"
"That's quite enough!" their escort had snapped.
Gale had stared at her from across the table. "Worth more than my family makes in a week," he mumbled. "Yours, too, I'd be willing to bet."
No one bought it, exactly, that it was an accident, the forest fire that killed her district partner.
"It's good," Katniss says, her voice so quiet she's not sure whether Peeta can hear her at all. The mug is warming her fingers, and though she didn't realize she was cold, the heat is more than appreciated. So she offers him a weak smile around the rim of the cup and takes another sip. This cup isn't like the ones that she's had during her time in the Capitol. There's something different. Something more, that she hasn't tasted before.
Bright and fresh, but surprisingly familiar. Like her home in the Seam, like rainy autumn afternoons in front of a smoky fire, with a cup full of mint tea and –
Mint.
Peeta put fresh mint into her chocolate. And whipped cream that clings to her lips. She sighs, and it sounds somewhat wistful, but she feels more content than she has in a long while.
"Do you want me to start a fire?" he asks, and she blinks at him. "Sorry. It's just – I see it must have gone out. And I figured . . . I may as well make myself useful," he asks. Make himself useful. He wants, again, to make himself useful when all he's done so far this evening is anticipate her needs before she's managed to figure them out herself.
"That would be nice," she tells him honestly.
The way he smiles makes it look like she's doing him a favor, letting him light the fire.
Notes:
much, much love to Gentlemama and Greenwool for their help with this story. Seriously.
