Katniss lies in the bed, staring at the spot where the ceiling meets the wall. It's all she really sees on days like this, when she wakes up tethered to the bed. Her eyes had opened not long after the sunlight had started streaming in through the windows. And though she's tried, she can't exactly convince them to shut again.
She's exhausted – even if that seems like a weak word for it – but she isn't tired in a way that would be so kind as to offer the release of sleep. And though she's weary all the way down to the bone, her baker is not.
She told him last night not to worry about getting up early. But she can hear him moving around downstairs, so busy that it's almost as if she said that she expected him to tell to work first thing. He's so busy – so loud, that she can feel herself getting irritated. Especially when she pulls the comforter over her head and it doesn't block out the noises coming from downstairs. The beep of the oven, the whir of the blender. The cat yowling and the apologies that spill out afterward.
It's so strange, so wrong, having someone else in this house. Someone who will know if she doesn't leave her room. Ever since she got back from the arena, her home in the Victor's Village has been relatively safe. Bugs notwithstanding, no one has known how little it takes to knock her off her feet. It's been like this since she got back from town. She'd like to think that it's because she was too ambitious – that she overextended herself and now she's paying for it. But honestly, that isn't the case. This, for lack of a better word, blankness that settles over her comes in waves, and she can't pretend to know what brought it on.
This, she thinks, is why it's better for no one to be around. Because, really, how is she going to get around explaining to Peeta that, no, she's not sick. She's just – she's not sure what. Maybe the right word is exhausted. Only, it isn't weariness that's left her so empty. It's another beast entirely. One that whispers ugly things in her ear.
Like that maybe Peeta is mocking her, being so . . . so productive downstairs. That isn't right, of course. But she can't help but to wonder what he'll think of this. Whatever this is. She was productive yesterday – more than she has been in years, it seems – and though Peeta seemed to understand enough about the panic that sent her scurrying to the closet yesterday, she isn't sure what he'll think of this. She turns over onto her side, taking the blanket with her, and resolves to focus on something – anything – other than the boy downstairs.
That's easier said than done, of course. Someone who is filling up the spaces that were left empty when her parents and her sister weren't there.
Oh, she remembers those first few days when she got back to Twelve. How she expected for one of the houses in the Victor's Village to be waiting for her. How the first sign of how wrong things were came nearly as soon as the train pulled into the station, and the roped off area that's traditionally waiting for the families of the tributes – from the Victory Tour, usually, though she's seen plenty of other homecomings on the screen. But no one was waiting for her.
The Hawthornes stood on the other side, just below the platform, waiting for the pine box that the woman's oldest son would be returned in. And Katniss' heart had clenched with a familiar pain that had been gnawing on her ever since the recap, when her district partner's death became more than just the sight of his face in the sky one night. She had to watch every gruesome second of the flames that lapped at him, and she was positive that Mrs. Hawthorne remembered it just as clearly as she did in that moment, as she hugged her children to her side and raised her chin bravely.
That was all Katniss could take. She tore her eyes away from the little family and searched for her own. Maybe it was a mistake that the section was empty. Maybe Prim was standing with her friends. Maybe, for some reason, her father just didn't want the added attention of waiting up front. Her heart pounded for a moment when she found a cluster of men and women from her father's mining crew, but her father was nowhere to be seen. And they were all looking at her so strangely. Something like pity in their eyes. But that didn't make sense. She was a victor! And wasn't the deal that even if she hated herself for what she did in the arena, she would be loved back home? Her homecoming was quite a spectacle, but the few smiles she received as she was paraded around the district were small and forced and made it obvious that there was something she didn't know.
But the last dregs of optimism wondered if maybe her mother was making a house call. Only, attendance was mandatory, and she couldn't imagine any peacekeepers letting anyone stay away unless they were in the process of dying – and besides, her mother wouldn't do that. Right? Wouldn't pick a sick stranger over the daughter she sobbed over in the Justice Building just a matter of weeks ago?
No. There was no one waiting for her to come home. Every last bit of comfort that she had managed to give herself in the last few days was a lie. There was no smoke coming from the chimney. No bread cooling on the countertop. No sister to curl up in the bed beside her. No mother to comb through her hair with her fingertips and give her small smiles with the corners of her lips turned down, the way they always were when she was small. No father to hold her in his arms when her body racked with sobs and hum lullabies to help her sleep.
There was no one waiting for her. Nothing in the cold, sterile home in the Victor's Village, save for the box of her family's things that waited just inside the hallway. A cruel, effective reminder of how very alone she was. It took three days for Darius – a Peacekeeper she and her father used to trade with – to knock on the door. He was the first visitor she had in her new home, and he ran his hand through his red hair, messing it up.
That was the first sign that something was wrong. "Can we talk?" he had asked, and though she didn't give him a response, he clearly didn't need one. "I'm sure you've noticed, but . . ." he had trailed off at that, giving her a weak, sympathetic smile. "Some things happened while you were gone. A new head peacekeeper not the least on the list of changes."
New head peacekeeper. She had tried to figure out if she had seen any evidence of that.
"Whipping posts, stockades. People being tried for things they didn't even realize were crimes."
"What are you saying?"
He had hesitated. "Katniss. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this –"
"Don't," she had gasped, taking a step back as if instinctively.
Before he had the chance to explain, she had slammed the door in her face. And now what has she done? Invited some boy – some stranger – to fill the room that could have belonged to her sister. Or her parents. And all she can think about is the fact that he's down there. That she's not alone in this house. That she's probably made a huge mistake in signing up to take care of him. Because – well, he's not a kid, exactly. Can't possibly be more than a year or two younger than her . . . oh, she hopes he's only a year or two younger than her. Old enough to be safe from the reaping. And though he's not a kid, the fact remains that she's responsible for him. His wellbeing. And he must know that. Maybe he realized before she did what she was signing on for. But he's down there, now. And she can't help but to wonder what he thinks. Of her. Of the way that she's disappeared on him twice, now. Or the way that she keeps her house – so dirty and so empty . . . and it's not that she cares, exactly, but she can't flip the switch in her head.
Can't unwonder what he thinks. Can't stop the dull, meaningless questions that keep coursing through her. She's not sure how long she stays there – hours, maybe. But she can't find the motivation to head down the stairs. It's afternoon, now. She woke up early, but yesterday seems like it was so long ago, now.
She was braver yesterday. And even though she was irritated with all of the noise Peeta was making, she can't help the sinking in her stomach when she realizes how quiet it's gone down there. Has she already failed again? As strange as it is for someone to be in her house, what's even stranger is the idea that this silence is something that's so disconcerting. She's had plenty of time to get used to that and almost no time at all for Peeta's presence to be a comfort, but she can't help herself from panicking. He's okay, right?
He has to be. She may be out of practice with being needed, but it would be particularly pathetic to fail so early.
It's while she's waiting for confirmation that he's okay that she hears it. What sounds like footsteps, and then a tiny thump. A knock? She's just convinced herself that it must have been something else when it comes again. "Katniss?" she hears Peeta ask. As if he isn't even sure that she's in there, or something. She wonders dully where else he might expect her to be. If there's anyplace she could be. The bed seems like the only option she has today.
For the first time all morning - or is afternoon? - she lifts her head from the bed. "Yeah?" she asks, embarrassed at how groggy her voice sounds. "What do you need?"
It's quiet for a moment. "Hey. Can I come in?"
She doesn't really want company, but she was just worrying about him. And though she can't be positive, she thinks he sounds concerned, himself. "Okay," she says, sitting up against the headboard. She wishes she had a book or something, so that he wouldn't know she's been so useless today.
He's balancing an enormous platter when the door opens just a second later. "I, um, I brought you some lunch," he says. "I wasn't sure what you'd like. But . . ." he trails off, setting the food down on the bed beside her. Her eyes widen at the meal. There are two sandwiches, made on dark bread and cut on the diagonal, arranged around a bowl of soup. "The, ah, the bread is fresh. I made it this morning. You seemed to like the kind I made last night, but that's not really sandwich bread. So, I tried to keep with that theme. The chicken in the sandwiches is leftover from last night, though."
"Thank you," she says. "You didn't have to do that."
He gives her a small smile. "Oh! And I got you a glass of water. I'll be right back. I wanted to bring it up with the rest of the meal, but it seemed risky. I mean, the cat was circling my feet. And I'm a klutz in the best of times."
"He's a beggar," she says distractedly, because she's not sure how to respond to any of this. She's fixated on the meal in front of her – she didn't even realize she was hungry, but now that it's in front of her . . . "Probably wanted you to trip."
He gives her a small smile. "I'll be right back with the water. Or tea, or hot chocolate, if you'd prefer that. Whatever you'd like."
She shakes her head. "No. Water sounds great. Thank you."
She's already almost finished with the first sandwich by the time he gets back, glass of ice water in one hand and a bowl with the last of the tartlets from the night before in the other.
"This is . . . this is really good, Peeta," she says, forcing herself to smile at him. His eyes keep lingering on her and she hates the way he looks at her. Hates that it feels like he's actually seeing her. "Thank you."
"I'm glad you like it. I should probably . . ." he tilts his head towards the door, but she stops him.
"Have you eaten, Peeta?"
His eyes drop to the floor, and she takes his sudden shyness as her answer. She can't help but to hate herself for trying to stay holed up in her room indefinitely. That would be the reason that this boy wouldn't be okay under her care. He won't eat if she's not there to tell him to.
"Take this," she says, holding the other half of the sandwich out towards him. He's hesitant to take it - of course he is, she thinks. "You need to eat," she insists, and he finally takes it, giving her a little thank you.
She chews absently while she watches him eat. She remembers being that hungry. Sees herself in the look on his face. He's so thin that she wants to push the rest of her meal towards him, like she did with the stew that first night. But she wouldn't accept that, in his shoes - it's a wonder he took the half of the sandwich she offered.
"Good, isn't it?" she asks, nodding towards the seat in front of the desk. 'You can sit."
He flushes, accepting the offer. "Oh. Thank you," he says. "I, um, I made some muffins this morning. They're downstairs."
She holds a hand over her mouth before she speaks. Her escort would shriek at her for having such bad manners, but she can't bring herself to care. "Yeah?"
His eyes find the floor, and she swears that she can see the beginnings of a blush on his cheeks. "I didn't know – I wasn't sure when you were going to be up. I didn't bring them, because they didn't really go with the meal. And, well, I'm not entirely sure what you like, yet. I mean, I get that it's my job to figure that out. But, um, there were muffins . . . there are muffins in the baskets from the bakery," he stumbles over his words, but she's not sure why. Is it because it's strange, putting his days at the bakery in the past tense? "Which, of course, means you'll have twice as many muffins as you're used to, this week. So I really hope you'll like them. There are a ton. I did half the recipe we usually made at the bakery, but . . . that's still kind of a lot."
"I will," she says, and then, because he looks so unsure, she continues. "But I'm not getting any more baskets. You're my baker, now, Peeta."
He bites his lower lip. "Right. Okay. Is, ah, is there anything you'd like me to make, then?" he asks cautiously."As your baker, I mean. A favorite - or something that you've had that you'd maybe like me to try my hand at?" he asks. "Because I'd be happy to try and figure it out - whatever it is."
She doesn't care about food as much as she might have, once. It's a shame, really. Now would be the time for her to care about what she ate, but she can't bring herself to. She shakes her head "I'm not picky," she says. "Whatever you want to make is fine."
He gives her a little nod. "Okay. I'm, um. . ." he trails off, giving her a nod and taking a bite of his sandwich. "Thank you for lunch."
She stares at him for a moment. She should be thanking him, not the other way around. But he said it with such conviction that the words "You're welcome" were almost already on her lips.
"No. Thank you, Peeta," she says.
"I could make more, if you want. It'll take no time at all."
"No. I'm good," she says. "Getting full, actually. Do you want the rest?" She pushes the last half towards him so she can finish up the soup.
He takes the dishes - and the last half of her sandwich - downstairs and leaves her with the dessert and the promise that he'll be back before dinner is ready.
She's sure that he would be back before dinner, but then she smells something from downstairs and finally manages to throw the blanket off of her legs. She feels strange about heading downstairs - as if she'll be interrupting something. But that's silly, because though Peeta is surprised when she joins him in the kitchen, he doesn't seem put out by it in the slightest.
"I was just about to head upstairs. These are for you," he says when he sees her. He motions towards a plate on the counter. There are two rolls waiting, so hot that, when she gets a little closer, she can see the steam rising off of them. "Cheese buns," he explains. "They're still really hot, so you might want to be careful."
She nods, picking one up and taking a bite anyway. It is hot, but also light and perfectly seasoned, with a thin layer of cheese baked right into the top. She lets out a little sigh before she can help herself and sees the way he tries to contain his smile. But he doesn't ask if she likes it.
He doesn't ask her anything. While she watches him work, she waits for the questions to start. For him to ask if she's feeling better now. Or to ask why, exactly, she's only just getting out of bed. But he doesn't. He doesn't pry at all, and it might be comforting if she didn't know why it is that he's so hesitant to really engage with her about anything.
He's afraid of her. That's why he's hesitant to take his eyes off of her but ashamed to be caught staring. Why he waits every morning, afternoon, and night for an invitation to eat with her. He never assumes. Leaves his bedroom door open whether he's in there or not. It's as if he thinks that she'll send him away if he leaves a glass on the counter or forgets to ask before he takes a shower.
And it hurts, realizing that Peeta Mellark is scared of her. It's not that she thought he was soft, exactly, but she had figured he was relatively trusting. And if this boy who has never been anything but kind to her is so afraid, she can't help but to wonder what her sister would think if she were here.
When Peeta tenses at the sound of her voice or the smiles that he offers aren't exactly convincing, she wonders which of her kills is playing in his head. Surely not that last one. Her arrow more a courtesy than anything as it ended her last opponent's suffering. Or maybe he's thinking about the lack of expression on her face as she watched the recap and finally came face to face with everything that she was capable of. Of course, she couldn't exactly cry. Couldn't show the crowd that she was aware of what a monster they had turned her into.
A monster who is selfish enough to wish that Peeta couldn't see her for what she really is. Who wishes that he could make the mistake of trusting her. Not so that she could betray him, but so that she would be able to remember what that feels like.
But Peeta is smarter than that, and she is desperate enough to settle for what she can get. A baker who is so afraid of her and who will more than likely keep her kitchen stocked with a steady supply of cheese buns. Who makes hot chocolate and builds a fire, just so that she can settle into her chair and try not to think for a while.
It never works, but it's nice to pretend that it will.
"This is what I like," she says, answering his question from before, punctuating the word by motioning with the cheese bun. "You figured it out."
He smiles shyly.
The worst part is that she doesn't notice until after he's been living with - and baking for - her for the better part of a week that she's misjudged the situation. The realization hits her when she comes downstairs and finds not only a fire waiting in the hearth, but a blanket draped over the back of her rocking chair. And Peeta, in the kitchen, hard at work on a breakfast that includes not only bacon but also hot chocolate.
She had been afraid that she was supposed to be taking care of him, but it's obvious that he has a very different idea of what sort of roles they're supposed to play. And she can't believe that she didn't notice it before. She had thought he was just quiet, kind, and considerate. The glasses of water and mugs of hot chocolate he constantly has on hand are proof enough of that. And though he doesn't always ask it, she can see the question in his eyes when he hands them over.
"Is this okay?"
Not only is he determined to take care of her, he's afraid that he'll get in trouble for it.
Or maybe he's just afraid to get in trouble in general. Because that question is there in everything he does. When she comes downstairs and finds him wearing a shirt that she bought that horrible day in town, and he makes a comment about how nice the shirt is. Whether it's because it's warm or soft or because he just likes it, his eyes always seem to ask the same thing. "Is this okay?" She's not sure what wouldn't be. He'd likely be every bit as unsure about wearing his old clothes as he is about wearing what she gave him.
It's there when she freezes at the sight of him, crouched down murmuring something to the cat. As if he's encroaching on something important by interacting with the mangy thing – and maybe she should think that he is. Maybe the only light haired person loved by that cat should remain her sister, but she can't think that way. It isn't fair to anyone – especially not Prim, who would want her cat to be doted on whether or not she could be there to it. And the thought of Prim always threatens to bring her to a horrible place, but then Peeta's eyes catch hers and he stands up, ignoring the way that the cat presses himself against his shins. "Is this okay?" he wants to ask. She can tell.
And, most of all, it's there when she looks up, suddenly, and catches him staring during a meal. His eyes drop down and his cheeks flame and she's nearly certain that he's thinking that it isn't okay. But of everyone who has stared at her in the last few years, well, Peeta isn't the worst. He's so easy to live with that she's more than willing to overlook the strange looks – write it off as a confused boy trying to reconcile the merciless killer he saw in the arena with the empty shell who sits across from him at dinner.
And it's wrong. Wrong that she's supposed to be taking care of this boy – this boy who needs her in a a way she hasn't been needed in years. But he won't ask for her help. She doesn't know how to give it to him, really. It's like he's been so fixated on worrying about her that he hasn't even let himself consider the fact that he might need something from her.
At least, she tells herself that that's why he seems so startled by the question when, over breakfast, she finally asks what he needs.
He's quick to assure her that he doesn't need anything. That what she has is fine – "Perfect, really," he says, looking so earnest that it almost hurts. "The ingredients, I mean, but – your kitchen! It's just . . . it's really incredible. You have two ovens. It's just – it's really nice. Your whole place is." It's strange, like he catches himself and tries to rein the excitement in. Like she'll look down on him for it. But it's the most genuine smile anyone has given her in a long time, and something in her chest clenches at just the sight of it. She wants to see more of them. "I've never had my own room," he admits somewhat shyly. "Not before, at least."
She looks down, thinking of the bed she shared with her sister. "I'm glad you like it," she says.
"I really do. But I like everything you have here. Your stand mixer, too! It's really nice. And has a ton of settings. Did you pick it out?"
She shakes her head, grateful for the distraction. "I didn't pick anything out. It all came with the house. I think there's a bread machine around here somewhere."
His eyes go wide and he shakes his head. "A bread machine?"
"I think it bakes the bread right in there. Mixes everything together. I've never used it."
"I would guess not, if you need me," he jokes.
"You can use it, if you want," she offers.
"Oh. No! I would feel like a cheater," he says. "Unless you wanted me to."
She shakes her head. This is different, talking over breakfast. Usually, they eat in silence after she's managed to drag herself out of bed and down the stairs. Well, mostly silence. That's another moment of "Is this okay?" that works its way into their daily routine. He always asks her whether or not she has any requests. Anything that she wants him to make when he starts his baking for the day – she never does. Once he's sure that she's not craving something, he gives her a rundown of what he wants to make. Reminds her that he'd be happy to try something new if she has any ideas. That she just has to let him know. She tells him that she doesn't have any ideas. That he's the baker, and all she's good for is eating. That she trusts his taste – and maybe that's a stretch, trusting anything. But she does trust his judgment when it comes to the food he makes. He hasn't made a thing that she hasn't enjoyed so far. Which doesn't explain why he isn't working at the bakery.
Not that that's a question she's willing to ask, of course.
"I'm going to the woods," she announces, surprising herself about as much as Peeta. "I know you said you can't think of anything you need, but what about from there? Want me to keep an eye out for anything?"
Notes:
All my love to Gentlemama and Greenwool. This fic wouldn't exist without you 3
I'm mellarksbakerydistrict12 on Tumblr, if you want to come say hi :)
