A/N: Okay! Here we are yet again with another chapter and the end of another week. Personally, I am beyond thrilled that Friday is finally upon us. After taking everyday I am ready for the weekend. Well, after my French final. Gotta get through that one before the weekend truly begins.
So, enough of my yammering about school that I'm sure you don't really care about. It really is quite boring. Therefore, might I propose we talk about the story? Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. This chapter is a lot of fun. Some serious moments here, but it's the reality of KP's situation. Kinda sucks. Don't worry, I found a way to work in some humor! You guys know me. Can't have things too serious.
Except in Come Rain or Come Shine. Yeah, that's the exception.
*cackles with evil laughter*
Don't worry, don't worry . . . too much . . . Haymitch and Rye have some pretty good one-liners in CROCS, I swear.
Movie quote of the day comes from the Avengers.
"What's your secret? Mellow jazz? Bongo drums? Huge bag of weed?" - Tony Stark
Random Disclaimer: I do not own CF, though I do own a rather fantastic fedora; "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"; "Why is the rum always gone?"; "Why so serious?"; "I'll get you my pretty! And your little dog, too!"; "I am Asneeze, father of Achoo."; "Dobby did not mean to kill . . . only to maim . . . or seriously injure."; "My precious!"; "Puny god"; "So that's what it feels like"; "Yeah, I can fly."; "There's only one God, ma'am, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that."; "Your skin is pale white, you dress fashionably, and you abstain from sex. . . I know what you are . . . Jonas brother"; "Snakes. I hate snakes."; "When you marooned me on that god forsaken spit of land, you forgot one very important thing, mate: I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."; "It's like Christmas, but with more . . . me."; "It's the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."; "It's beautiful isn't it, Harry? The moon."; "Hang on, everybody! I wanna try something I saw in a cartoon once!"; "Well that's as clean as it will ever be."; "Slimy, yet satisfying."; "You may not like it Minister, but you can't deny . . . Dumbledore's got style."; "Over that boy hand!"; "Don't ever hit your mother with a shovel. It leaves a dull impression on her mind."; "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!"; "There's a jungle cat in the bathroom!"; "Any guy can sweep a girl off her feet; he just needs the right broom."; "I suffer from aviophobia - it means fear of dying in something that flies!"; "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."; "I should have brought you a sedative."; "What's your secret? Mellow jazz? Bongo drums? Huge bag of weed?"
Chapter 30
"What is it?" Peeta asks as we barrel through the jungle. "What is it?"
"A fog!" I reply as we leap over a cluster of vines. "Poisonous!"
And it's painful. Droplets from the ghostly fog seem to leap out to land on our skin, but the pain isn't like being burned. No, it's like acid eating away at our skin, burrowing under all the layers to produce a sharp stab of intense pain. The sheerness of our jumpsuits provides no protection at all. I've lost sight of Finnick, but I steer myself and Peeta in the direction that I think he went.
Now that the initial adrenaline rush has past, it's clear that the aftereffects of Peeta's encounter with the force field are much more potent than he was letting on. Our pace slows, and while the vines that litter and snake along the jungle floor merely trip me up occasionally, they cause Peeta to stumble nearly every step.
I grasp his hand tightly in mine. "Try and step where I do!"
It helps. Peeta and I begin to move faster, but not fast enough to allow ourselves a brief rest. The fog continues to crawl after us ominously, its snaking tendrils seeming to pull it along the ground. I entertain the idea of climbing a tree, getting above the fog line, but I tend to need a boost to get into all these trees and there was no way that Peeta could climb. He doesn't have the strength.
So we continue to run.
Finnick appears in front of us, apparently having noticed that we were having problems. He shouts encouragement to us, trying to get us to move faster and for a while it helps. But Peeta is so weak and all the adrenaline in the world could not make him move any faster than he already is. Finnick's voice acts as a guide, but that's about all that he can do for us.
I notice that he's moving in a diagonal. He's heading toward the Cornucopia, toward the water. Now that I know the direction, it's easier for me to move a little faster. I'm briefly filled with a bit of hope, or a surge in motivation at least, knowing that there is a metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel. We only have to make it there.
And then my arm begins to spasm. It's uncontrollable and suddenly I'm filled with a fear that eclipses the blisters and the burns. Whatever chemical is in this fog targets our nerves. I glance up at Peeta and see that he's affected too. His eyelid seems to be drooping without his consent and one corner of his mouth is slack, forming an odd grimace.
"Come on, Peeta," I encourage.
We make it a few more yards before Peeta suddenly collapses, taking me down with him, though I manage to brace my fall. I'm thinking he merely tripped over a vine, but when I try and haul him to his feet, I realize that my assumption was wrong. The fog has caused Peeta's legs to give out. Peeta can't run anymore, and I can't possibly drag him along.
Peeta realizes this, too. "Go," he tells me. "Go."
Leave. He wants me to leave him. My eyes dart to the fog, only a few yards away and quickly closing in, as if it senses a potential victim. Leave. I can't just leave him on the ground. That's too cruel. Too cold. I can't leave him like this. I can't leave him to die.
"Baby." It's not Peeta using a pet name. It's him reminding me. The baby. Our baby. If I don't leave, I'll die. If I die, our baby dies, which is the one thing that neither of us can live with.
A tear slides down my cheek as I feel my heart shatter. I turn to flee . . . and then Finnick appears. He sets Mags down on the ground and looks to me. "Can you take Mags?" he asks.
I'm still reeling from the fact that I was going to leave Peeta to die to save our child. But I push that back. Survive. That's what I do. "Yes," I answer in as strong a voice as I can. I squat down and Mags positions herself over my shoulder.
Mags isn't heavy by any means, maybe seventy pounds, but I feel my heart sink. I know that I can't carry Mags's weight forever. We've got to find a way from this fog soon. Both my arms are wracked with spasms now, shaking uncontrollably.
Finnick and I take off running the moment he has Peeta across his back. I trail behind him, following his path. We continue to run at a diagonal, keeping a distance between ourselves and the fog while still moving toward the water of the Cornucopia. But even with Peeta now being carried by Finnick, our pace is still too slow. That, or the fog is gliding toward us with increasing deadly speed.
When I fall to the ground, it's not Mags's fault. My legs aren't working, shaking spasmodically like a stringed-puppet's. The first two times I stumble, I manage to get back to my feet, but the third time's the charm. No matter how hard I try, I can't get my legs to cooperate. I grip the vines around me, trying to pull myself up, but I can't manage it. My legs aren't working.
Finnick is suddenly in front of me again, Peeta hanging over his shoulder. "It's no use," I tell him. "Can you take them both? Go on ahead, I'll catch up." A dubious proposal, but I say it with as much strength as I can.
"No," Finnick says, his sea green eyes shining in the moonlight, and I realize it's because they're shimmering with tears. "I can't carry them both. My arms aren't working." It's true. His arms are just as plagued with spasms as mine are. Of his two tridents, only one remains, and it's clutched in Peeta's hands. "I'm sorry, Mags. I can't."
And then the craziest thing happens. Mags gets to her feet, plants a kiss on Finnick's lips, and then charges into the fog, looking stronger than I've ever seen . . . but it doesn't last. The fog seems to converge on her and her small, frail body is wracked with convulsions. It's one of the most horrifying things I've seen, but when I turn to look at Finnick, I see that he's already turned away from the scene.
A cannon sounds. Mags is gone.
I want to scream. I want to make sense of Mags's death, but I don't have the time. I have to survive. The fog is nearly a yard away from me, and something within me, some strength I didn't know I had, causes me to scramble to my feet. I don't know how I manage it, but I stumble along after Finnick, forcing my legs to work. The baby is at the forefront of my mind. Get the baby away from the fog. Protect. That's all I'm thinking about, and I'm filled with such a strong determination that I manage to catch up with Finnick, only trailing a few yards behind him.
After thirty more yards, Finnick finally collapses, causing Peeta to land on top of him. The strange force that has kept my legs moving does not cease as to allow me to stop running, so I continue to move forward until I trip over their prone bodies. I land on top of Peeta and for a moment, all of us just lie there gasping for air.
Finnick's groan is what finally gets me to move, and I manage to roll myself off of them. It's then that I see why we haven't been enveloped by the fog like Mags. It's almost as if the fog hit a glass wall. I watch as it continues to condense and slowly grow taller and taller, but it never moves forward. It's reached the end of its leash, its boundary line. Just like the rain, just like all the other horrors in this arena.
"It's stopped," I say, but my voice sounds terrible. I try and clear it. "It's stopped," I repeat in a much more intelligible voice. Both Peeta and Finnick look up briefly to see that what I say is true, and we all watch as the fog disappears upward, like it's being sucked into a vacuum.
Five seconds later and it's gone.
Peeta rolls off Finnick, and finds my hand in the sand. For a moment, I don't feel any pain as I meet Peeta's eyes. I squeeze his hand, telling him without words that I'm grateful he's with me. I almost had to live my worst nightmare, abandoning Peeta to save our child. If it weren't for Finnick's impeccable timing, I would have left him. Peeta, as if sensing my thoughts, squeezes my hand reassuringly.
We all continue to lie on our backs in silence until Peeta makes a vague gesture upward and says, "Mon-hees." My eyes flit up to the trees above us and sure enough, monkeys. I've never seen a monkey before, but 'monkey' is the first word that comes to my mind when I gaze at the furry creatures. About half the size of a human with fuzzy orange fur. They study us as we study them, and that's how it is for the next five minutes. Exchanging gazes between ourselves and the monkeys above us.
Peeta is the first to do something proactive, managing to get to his knees and begin to crawl down the slope. Since walking is completely out of the question, crawling is the next best thing, and both Finnick and I struggle to our knees and then begin to crawl after Peeta. We crawl until we leave the jungle, coming out onto the narrow strip of beach and then on to the water.
The moment my skin comes into contact with the water, I jerk back like it bit me. Like salt in a wound. I can now fully appreciate the phrase. The salt in the water when in contact with my blistered skin causes a white hot pain to shoot through me. But in the brief second my hand was in the water, I also felt the sensation of drawing out. Gritting my teeth, I place my hand in the water again, and though the initial pain is nearly blinding and almost causes me to pass out . . . it slowly begins to diminish. I watch as a milky white substance pours from the blisters on my hands, the pain ebbing the longer my hand stays in the water.
I unbuckle the belt from my waist and peel off my jumpsuit. It's worthless anyways, and looks like someone used it for target practice with a machine gun. I toss it aside and am left in only my underclothes, which for some reason are not damaged. A white tank top over a white bra with matching white underwear, though they are made like a pair of very tight, very short shorts.
I vaguely wonder if the Capitol is upset that I don't have a baby bump. It would certainly be visible now in this state of undress.
I continue to think of the Capitol as I slowly ease myself into the water, inch by inch. I start with just my feet, and to distract myself from the stinging pain I wonder how things are in the Capitol. Are they watching the Games with the same fervor as last year? Or are they weary due to Peeta's announcement? Did they wail in anguish when Peeta died, however briefly, leaving me alone to raise our child? Did it make them stop and think? Think that maybe all of this is horridly wrong?
I sink into the water until my knees are submerged. My mind drifts to Haymitch, the first father figure I've had in nearly six years, however flawed he might be. How is he? Is Snow keeping an eye on him? What about District 13? Has he been in contact with them? Is everything in place for the break out? The water is now up to my hips. What about Cinna? What has happened to him? Has he been made into an Avox? Like Darius?
My thoughts come to a halt when I hear a pained groan. I look to my left and see that Peeta has followed my example and gotten into the water as well. The water is just under his chest and his eyes are shut tight. Despite all the pain I'm in, I know that I actually got off easily compared to Peeta and Finnick. Finnick is the worst off. He hasn't even moved from his place on the beach, not even going near the water.
I submerge until just my neck is above the water, and I take Peeta's hand. His eyes open and meet mine, and it's like we reach a mutual decision without words. Simultaneously, both of us submerge completely. It's the worst pain yet, but I suffer through it, knowing that it's drawing out the poison. I snort water through my nostrils to clear my sinuses and gargle more than once to clear my throat.
When I resurface I still feel terrible, but I'm not in agonizing pain, so I consider it an upgrade. Peeta and I move out of the water to help Finnick. Though some feeling is returning to my leg, the muscles in my arms still spasm sporadically. I can't drag Finnick to the water. Besides, the pain might kill him, and I like Finnick Odair very much alive.
Peeta cuts away Finnick's jumpsuit and together we turn him one hundred eighty degrees. We repeat the same process with Finnick that we used, slowly sliding him into the water inch by inch. First we just put his feet in. Wait a few minutes. Up to midcalf. Wait another few minutes. Up to mid thigh. When we submerge him until the water is at his waist, he begins to stir, a pained moan escaping him.
It's just now that I realize how vulnerable our current position is. Even though it's night, the bright pale light of the moon illuminates the arena fairly clear, especially in the open expanse of the beach and the Cornucopia. If we were to be attacked, especially by the Careers, we would be easily overpowered and killed. And if the mere passing of time doesn't give our position away, Finnick's moans will.
As I watch the clouds of white escape Finnick's wounds, I notice that not only does being in the water drag out the poison, but it also helps with my muscle spasms and my mind clears. Peeta's droopy eye is almost back to normal and his mouth has lost its previous grimace.
Finnick begins to revive and slowly become more alert. When we submerge him until only his neck is above the water, he groans loudly in pain. I rest his head in my lap and stroke his hair soothingly as he grits his teeth. His arms got the worst of the fog and little rivulets of the white poison permeate the water around him. We let him sit like this for a good ten minutes before Peeta says, "There's just your head left, Finnick. That's the worst part, but you'll feel much better after, if you can bear it."
Peeta and I exchange a small smile when Finnick lifts his arms out of the water to grab each of our hands. After Finnick detoxifies his eyes, nose, and mouth, Peeta and I help him back onto the beach, though we keep his lower half in the water. We need Finnick to heal quickly, and the water is revitalizing. Speaking of water . . .
"I'm going to go tap a tree," I announce, thinking of all the running we've done. We need to rehydrate. I need the spile . . . the spile! My fingers quickly move to my belt, and I sigh in relief when I feel the cool metal, still tied to my waist. Thank god, I didn't lose it during our run from the fog.
"Let me make the hole first," Peeta offers before motioning to Finnick. "You stay with him. You're the healer."
Ha. I raise my eyebrows in a 'you've got to be kidding me' gesture, and Peeta grins. "You kept me alive, and I was worse off than Finnick."
"I was motivated," I say with a small smile. But he does have a point. It makes more sense for Peeta to make the hole for the spile, not because I'm the 'healer' but because it would simply take me forever to carve out the hole. "But I'll stay with him."
Finnick's voice is still too raw to speak, but he makes a sound of annoyance. I roll my eyes as I set his head in my lap again, my fingers absently stroking his hair. Finnick glares up at me briefly, before his lids flutter closed and he sighs. The thought that I'm currently the envy of hundreds of women in the Capitol occurs to me. What they probably wouldn't give to have Finnick Odair rest his head in their lap and be able to stroke his hair as I'm doing now.
I can hear Peeta carving away at a tree just inside the tree line. I can barely see his broad form, the tangle of trees and vines obscuring him for the most part, but the steady sound of his knife cutting into the bark reassures me that he's okay. I wonder where the awl is, and if we lost it with Mags. She had been carrying it. Either she took it with her to her death or she dropped it when I fell. It doesn't really matter, I suppose. It's gone. Just like Mags.
As I continue to stroke Finnick's hair, I wonder about Mags's death. It makes no sense to me. Did she jump into the fog because she was old and knew her days were winding down, anyway? Why did Finnick let her? It's almost as though he abandoned her to carry Peeta . . . to save Peeta. Oh. That's exactly what he did. That's exactly what Mags did. Someone had to die, but it couldn't be me or Peeta, the symbol of the rebellion. Mags sacrificed herself to save Peeta, and Finnick let her. I hope that Peeta doesn't recognize this because he'll feel so incredibly guilty, even if it isn't his fault.
"You're mothering." The sound of Finnick's voice startles me, and I look down to see his sea green eyes staring up at me, mildly amused.
"Only because you're a child," I retort.
"Nope," Finnick argues lightly. "Just wait. Another day in the arena and you'll be a mother hen."
"Are you comparing me to a chicken?"
The question, of course, prompts Finnick to start making chicken noises. I shove him into the water and he begins to swim around. Well, he's feeling better. I get into the water too, just to make sure he doesn't get in over his head, literally and figuratively. We swim around a bit and I alternate floating on my back and belly. The longer I'm in the water, the better I feel.
But while the water seems to be rejuvenating me, it's transformed Finnick. He moves slowly at first, but then he gradually begins to swim. He doesn't use even strokes like me, but an array of twists and turns and dives. He swims like a seal. The water is his home. Not fifteen minutes later he's gliding through the water, doing this odd corkscrew motion that makes me dizzy just watching. Then he disappears under the water for so long I'm almost sure that he's drowned, a rather ironic death for a person from District 4, when suddenly his head pops up right beside me.
"Don't do that!" I scold. "You had me worried."
Finnick grins. "See? Mothering."
"Shut up." I snap. "Just soak in the water and behave."
"Yes, mom."
I splash water in his face. "You know what, if you feel this good, let's go help Peeta," I say, not liking the thought that he's in the jungle by himself.
Finnick shrugs, and we climb out of the water. Grabbing our weapons, we begin the short walk to Peeta. Blame it on hunter instincts, but I sense warm bodies above us when we're about ten yards from the tree line. I lay a hand on Finnick's arm and he pauses to see what's wrong. I don't bother answering, I simply direct his gaze above us.
Sitting in the trees, totaling nearly forty in all, are the orange monkeys we saw earlier. Except where the previous two we met seemed rather harmless, almost like a welcoming committee, this band of monkeys is a threat. A big one.
Finnick's hands tighten on his trident and I silently load two arrows into my bow. I don't know how, exactly, but I know that these monkeys are very aggressive. Mere eye contact is enough to set them off. I have no idea how they managed to sneak up on us like this, especially considering their number. But I have bigger things to worry about. Peeta.
"Peeta?" I call as calmly and casually as possible. I don't want to startle the monkeys or Peeta. "I need your help with something."
"Okay, just a minute," he says and I huff in frustration. At home, I say I need something, and he comes running. And then here in the arena of all places, he decides to be difficult. "I think I've just about got it," he continues as he hacks away at the tree.
I try and keep my voice measured. "Peeta, honey . . ." The jungle goes ominously silent as Peeta stops hacking at the tree, finally realizing that something is wrong. I have never called him anything other than his name. "We've found something you'd better take a look at," I say. "Only move toward us quietly, so you don't startle it."
"Okay," Peeta replies just as casually, and he begins to make his way toward us. I know that he's trying, but he's still walking as loudly as ever, despite his extra time in the woods with me. Well, scratch that, almost as loud as ever. He's gotten a little bit better. But all that matters to me in this moment is that he's walking toward me.
Peeta is almost on the beach when he finally senses the monkeys. He looks up only briefly, for less than a second, but it's enough to send the monkeys into a state. They move faster than any animal I've ever seen, sliding down the vines like they're greased and leaping to the ground. Sharp fangs extend menacingly from their open jaws, claws more akin to small steak knives pop out of their fingertips. All of them converge on Peeta, and Finnick and I are already running.
Mutts. No natural animal acts like this.
Peeta is slashing at the mass of orange fur surrounding him when Finnick and I arrive. I know that every shot I make has to count, and they do. One shot, one kill. However, I'd still be fighting a losing battle if I didn't have Finnick beside me, spearing monkeys left and right and then tossing the carcasses aside. Peeta, of course, is never to be underestimated and with every slash or stab of his knife a monkey dies.
But there are so many. They climb up my back, claw at my legs, tug at my braid until they are abruptly removed by either Finnick or Peeta. I can't tell. I'm too busy shooting. We stand back to back, forming a rough triangle. When I reach back to my quiver for an arrow, only to find it empty, dread fills me. Until I remember my second quiver, one currently slung over Peeta's shoulder.
I draw my knife for some form of protection, but I'm not near as good with it as Peeta, and the monkeys move so fast you can barely react. I need my arrows. "Peeta!" I shout. "Your arrows!"
Peeta turns his head and sees my plight. He's just sliding the quiver off his shoulder when it happens. A monkey, large and fierce, launches itself straight at me. I don't have time to slash at it, so I do the only thing I can think of. I throw my knife, knowing that if I don't hit the monkey I'm dead.
My knife sails through the air, flipping end over end, heading straight toward the monkey's heart . . . and the monkey miraculously somersaults out of the way. My knife goes sailing past, landing helplessly in the sand, and I realize that I'm about to die. Everything slows down, but it's like my brain speeds up. Thoughts and memories are flying through my mind with blinding speed and yet I still manage to comprehend them all. My father. The woods. The cave. Peeta. His proposal. Our toasting. Passion-filled nights. Images flit through my head, all the people I love. Peeta's soft smile. Prim's giggle. Haymitch's scowl. Rye's goofy grin. My father singing. The vague memory of my mother's shy smile.
But all I can think about, at the very end, just when the monkey's fangs are about to sink into my chest, is my baby. A child I will never know.
Abruptly, everything speeds back up, and I hear a whizzing sound fly right by my ear, disturbing some errant strands of hair that have escaped my braid. A flash of silver, and then a howl of pain. But it's not me. It's the monkey, lying prone on the ground in front of me, a long knife sticking out of its throat.
I spin around, but Peeta is already shoving the quiver of arrows into my hands. Ignoring the fact that Peeta just saved my life and our child's by making a miraculous throw, I get back to business. The monkey's numbers have lessened greatly, and I begin to fire off arrow after arrow. Every shot hits its mark.
Finally sensing the need to retreat, the remaining monkeys begin to flee. Either that, or the Gamemakers decided that we proved ourselves worthy and entertaining enough to live another day. Despite the last monkey disappearing from sight, not I nor Peeta and Finnick relax our tense, battle-ready positions. When another minute or so passes and no blob of orange fur leaps out at us, we finally relax. None of us say anything. I begin to gather my arrows from the fallen monkeys, and once Finnick sees what I'm doing he begins to help. Peeta, however, goes to the monkey that nearly killed me and retrieves his knife. It almost appears that he's debating on stabbing the monkey, just for good measure, but Peeta's shoulders sag and he turns away, helping Finnick and I collect my arrows.
We're able to retrieve almost all of the arrows before the vines on the ground begin to shift, snaking around the dead monkeys and pulling them away. I blink and then suddenly they are gone. By a silent mutual agreement, we all move back to the water. I plop down onto the sand and Peeta settles beside me. Finnick says something about shellfish and jumps into the water, but I know that he's just giving us some time alone.
Peeta and I are silent for a long time. "Eventful day," Peeta finally says, breaking the silence.
"And it's barely begun," I reply. The sun hasn't even come up yet.
But Peeta's right. It's been an eventful day. First with the fog. Mags's death. And then the monkeys. Twice today, I've prepared myself to say goodbye to Peeta in one way or another. When we fell in the fog, I was ready to leave him to save myself and our child. Even the memory causes me to cringe, and a shadow of the pain I felt making that decision consumes me.
And then there was the monkey attack only a few minutes ago. The image of that monkey, large and menacing, fangs bared, claws extended, flying through the air toward me will always be with me, haunting my nightmares. I'd been a second away from death. If Peeta hadn't thrown the knife when he had . . .
Peeta takes my hand. "I've never been more terrified," he says. "When I saw that thing flying toward you and you were defenseless."
I feel a small tug of indignation pull at me. "I was not defenseless."
"Your knife missed."
He has a point.
A weary sigh escapes me. "I thought I was going to die," I divulge in a soft voice. It's weird. So many times I've had the same thought, that I was going to die, but this time was different for some reason. This time I truly believed it.
Peeta pulls me into his lap and holds me close. "So did I," he admits. "All I could think about was that I was about to lose you and the baby." Peeta holds me tighter. "And the thought was so painful that I threw that knife just to make it stop—and to save you of course," he adds, making my lips twitch up in a small smile.
"So I guess that means you must really love us, huh?" It's odd how 'I' am no longer 'me.' I am us. Me and the baby.
I turn slightly so I can look up at Peeta. "More than anything," he replies softly. We hold each other's gaze for a long moment before leaning in at the same time. When my lips meet his, a very familiar, comforting warmth blossoms in my chest before spreading throughout my entire body. I wrap my arms around his neck, but Peeta's hands do not stray from my waist. While my hormones do not appreciate this, my rational side does, because the last thing I want Panem to see is Peeta's hands wandering all over me. They'd enjoy that way too much.
When we break away, I rest my forehead against his. "I love you, too," I say before giving him a brief kiss and then settling my head on his shoulder. We're silent for a moment before I speak again. "Oh, and Peeta?"
"What?"
"Good throw."
Does that count as a fluffy moment? Sorta kinda? Because that's about as fluffy as it's gonna get for the rest of this story.
So, in summary for this chapter: Finnick saves the day (again), Mags is dead, Katniss is hormonal but still a badass, and Peeta is simply in a league of his own.
Okay, so the quote for Come Rain or Come Shine today comes from . . . Peeta!
"You don't love me. You don't do this to someone you love. All my suffering? All of my torture . . . it's all because of you. You and that spawn."
*ducks and hides*
Lots of love,
AC
