So much heat. My eyes are tightly shut but I can feel him moving against me, hot breath on my neck, fingers wrapped in my hair, his hard length pressing urgently against me. I can feel his hands and mouth everywhere, soft and hot and wet and so good, so very good. I never knew it could feel like this, my whole body is burning, his every touch ignites me, makes me beg for more. I'm moaning and keening in ways that hardly sound human, powerless to restrain the noises that the pleasure pushes past my lips. His hands, those big hands, stroking and caressing me, touching me in ways I never imagined, in places I never imagined. My heart pounds and I can scarcely catch my breath, arching up into the heat, needing more, so much more, climbing higher. "Oh Peeta…" I moan.
My eyes snap open in the pre-dawn dim, my heart racing and breathing ragged. I'm drenched in sweat and trembling, and I swear I can hear the echo of my voice in the silence.
"Are you okay Katniss?" Peeta is beside me, staring at me with sleepy eyes. I can feel myself blushing furiously and I sit bolt upright. Peeta sits up too, concern etched on his face. "Nightmare?" he asks softly. He reaches a gentle hand to touch my shoulder and I jump, then scramble off the bed quickly.
"Hey, what's wrong? Katniss?" he calls after me, but I'm already bolting out of his room and down the stairs. I shove my feet into my boots and am pushing open the door when Peeta appears in the kitchen doorway. "Katniss!" he calls, his voice laced with panic. I turn back to him only briefly, just long enough to see his broad chest defined by his snug white shirt, blond curls rumpled and falling over his forehead, those big hands braced against the doorframe. Those hands... My breathing starts to pick up, the heat from my dream starting to race through my veins again, pulsing urgently between my thighs. I have to get out of here now.
"I – I have to go," I say in a rush as I run out his back door, heading for the woods. I can feel his bewildered blue eyes follow me.
I don't slow my pace until I'm well past the fence, crashing through the brush with no thought to the amount of noise I'm making, probably scaring off all of the animals in a ten mile radius. It's only when I've collapsed under an old maple tree, breathless and nauseated, that I realize I haven't even brought my bow. It's sitting in the corner by Peeta's front door, where I know I left it yesterday. I can't go back for it; if I go back he's going to want to know what the hell I'm doing.
And what the hell am I doing? I had a sex dream. About Peeta! Katniss Everdeen does not have sex dreams! And he was looking at me when I woke up. Could he tell? Does he know? I sometimes talk in my sleep, did I say anything? Please don't let him know. How can I ever sleep beside him again? How can I ever even look at him again? Shame floods through me, I feel dirty, thinking those things about Peeta when he was right beside me, sleeping, oblivious to the sordid images my treacherous mind had conjured. Delicious images that felt so real… No! I can't afford to think that way.
The sun is fully up now so I force myself back onto my feet and begin to wander, trying to escape my thoughts, trying to lose myself in the sounds and smells of my woods. It isn't working.
Eventually I climb up an ancient oak tree, settling on a branch some 25 feet up and leaning into the trunk. I'm not very far from the fence line so from this height I can make out some of the roofs of the Victor's Village. I can't see Peeta from here, of course, and I wouldn't want to because I'm not thinking about Peeta anymore. He's probably with Haymitch anyway, commiserating about what an awful person I am.
The sun and gentle swaying of the branches soothes me, and after a while I'm finally able to clear my mind and just enjoy the peace, the rustling of leaves around me almost like music. I think of my father, how much he loved the sounds of the woods, how he taught me to identify birds just by their songs. Hours pass just sitting and listening, keeping my mind blissfully blank.
I'm so relaxed that I don't notice it at first. A mockingjay has landed on my branch and is only a foot away. I smile as it as it cocks its head to look at me. Then it opens its beak and sings four notes.
Rue's four note signal.
I recoil in horror, shrieking and, for the first time in my life, forgetting that I'm in a tree. I snap out of it too late, only able to register my body hitting several large braches before I slam into the ground, flat on my back. Every bit of air is forced from my lungs. I lie in the dirt, bright spots swimming in front of my eyes, desperately clawing at the forest floor as I try in vain to make myself breathe. As my vision fades to black I hear the mockingjays echoing my scream and I think after everything I've lived through this is how I'm going to die?
When I hear someone saying my name I'm sure it's another hallucination. I force my eyes open and am startled to see a pair of grey eyes hovering right above me. Their owner jumps back and stammers. "M-miss Katniss… are you okay?" I groan and close my eyes again. I'm not dead apparently, but I'm certainly not okay either. There's a hand insistently shaking my shoulder. "M-miss Katniss? Are you hurt? Should I get someone?"
I open my eyes again; the owner of the hand that's shaking me is sitting back on his haunches, looking frightened, his long black hair falling in his eyes. He's young, maybe 14 years old, the beginnings of a sparse moustache crawling across his upper lip. "Who are you?" I croak, the effort of breathing making my chest ache. I wonder if I've broken my ribs again.
"I'm Kip Althorpe. We used to live a street away from you. Uh, before." I study his face a little more closely, his nose and chin familiar.
"You're Penny's brother?" I still can't catch my breath and every word is an effort, but I remember Penny Althorpe, she was a year ahead of me in school. Their family had been desperately poor, even by Seam standards. Kip nods at me, smiling. "Can you help me sit up?" I ask. He extends his hand and when I grab it he yanks me up to a sitting position. My head swims and the world spins violently but I manage to stay upright. After a few minutes I can open my eyes without feeling like I'm going to throw up. Kip is still staring at me with an expression of fear and awe, which makes me uncomfortable. It's annoying, actually, but I can't run him off because I think I'm going to need his help to get out of here. I'm dizzy and winded, staying on the ground in the woods unarmed and unable to run is just a stupid idea, no matter how much it bothers me to have to ask for help.
To his credit, Kip seems to understand without me telling him. "Let me help you home," he says. "You're pretty banged up. Did you fall?" I simply nod, hoping he won't say anything else. It's embarrassing: Katniss Everdeen, Victor and Mockingjay fell out of a tree like a six year old.
I hate the idea of this kid helping me home but I'm so wobbly I can barely stand and my steps are more like lurches. He tucks his shoulder under my arm and helps me keep my balance as I walk the half mile or so back to Victor's Village. I'm hoping that we won't run into anyone and I can simply slip inside my house and sleep the rest of this miserable day away, but the odds are not in my favour. Peeta is outside, working in his garden. When Kip catches sight of him, he yells out "Mister Peeta!" his voice cracking in that adolescent boy way.
Peeta jumps up and takes several steps towards us before stopping in his tracks. Even from nearly 20 feet away I can see his pupils dilate rapidly. Shit I think. Not now.
"Peeta, it's okay." It's the only thing I can think of to say and I say it as loudly as I can, which isn't very loud at all given my inability to take much of a breath, but it does seem to help him. He closes his eyes briefly and when he reopens them they're back to normal, his trembling hands clenched in fists the only sign that he's continuing to fight off a flashback.
"Kip," I say under my breath. "Can you help me inside?" I know Peeta needs a few more minutes to regain control; I want to slip away quietly, so as not to upset him further.
"Oh, uh, of – of course Miss Katniss," Kip stammers, his face scarlet under the olive tone. He leads me, though, to Peeta's house instead of my own. I open my mouth to protest but Peeta moves quickly ahead of us to push open the door and usher us inside. Kip helps me into the living room and over to the couch, then backs away. I think he's intimidated by Peeta. I'd laugh at that idea if it didn't hurt so much. They speak a few words to each other in the hall but I can't make out anything they say.
I lean my head back against the couch, exhausted and embarrassed. Before I can drift off Peeta reappears, carrying a bowl of water, washcloths and a first aid kit. He sits beside me but won't meet my eyes. I can't meet his either, so I close them again.
Only when I feel a warm wet cloth brush gently across my forehead and down my temple do I open my eyes. Peeta looks terrified, but after a few moments of carefully cleaning my head he sags a little. "Just a scratch," he says, setting the bloodied rag back into the water. It's then that I realize why Peeta was struggling; the bleeding cut I hadn't even felt is in the same place where Clove's knife hit me in our first Games. He cared for that wound too, in our cave. I know Snow tampered with those memories, I wonder what version he's remembering. He meets my eyes now, though his still look wary.
"Kip says he thinks you fell out of a tree," Peeta says as he bandages my forehead. There's an odd inflection in his voice, I can't place it. So I simply nod. "Where are you hurt?" I want to say nowhere, I'm fine, but he'd see through it, I'm wincing with every breath.
"I landed on my back," I mumble. "Knocked the wind out of me. I'll be okay."
There's a flash of what I can only describe as anger in Peeta's eyes before his carefully neutral expression is back.
"Did you hit your head? Kip said you were unconscious." He's studying my eyes carefully now. I wonder what he's looking for.
"Uhm, I'm not sure," I answer his question. "Maybe?" Now that I'm sitting still I do notice my head pounding. I reach back automatically and wince as my fingers encounter a bump.
Peeta sighs and puts his hands on my shoulders, gently turning me away. His fingers prod delicately, quickly finding the sore spot. "That's a pretty good lump," he says. "Let me get you some ice." He disappears into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with ice wrapped in a cloth and a glass of water, which I drink gratefully. I never even mentioned being thirsty, but somehow he knew. He's being too nice to me, after how I bolted out of his house this morning without a word of explanation he should be angry, should be refusing to speak to me. Instead he's sad, disappointed maybe, but still taking care of me. Still being good and kind and rock solid. Guilt eats away at me. I press the ice against my head and sulk.
"Keep the ice on for twenty minutes, then take a twenty minute break and after we'll ice it again," he says as he starts cleaning and applying antibiotic ointment to the myriad of scrapes and scratches running up and down my left arm and leg. "I think you could have a concussion, so I'll keep an eye on you today and wake you every few hours overnight to make sure you're okay."
"What do you know about concussions? Are you a healer now?" I snap at him, cruelly. He flinches. There's a pause where I can sense he's deliberating with himself whether to answer my question and somehow I know if he does I won't like what he has to say. He sighs and moves around me to tend to my other arm and leg.
"I was seven, or maybe eight," Peeta begins. "Brann and I were goofing around, wrestling probably. And we broke something. I don't even remember what we broke but my mother flew into a rage. Her brand of justice was always to act first and think later. When she… when she hit me I… I flew backwards. None of us realized that Rye had come up from the bakery and the door was open." I can see the shudder that runs through him as he remembers. "Apparently I was unconscious when I landed on the bakery floor. My mother blamed Rye, of course. I think she beat him worse than me. My father took me to see the healer in town, and he said that Dad should wake me every few hours. To make sure I hadn't slipped into a coma." I'm biting my lip as hard as I can, trying to hold back the tears. Peeta continues, softly, "My father stayed with me all night. Rye and I curled up together, like we usually did when mother had been rough, and Dad climbed in with us. None of us got much sleep that night"
My earlier anger is gone, replaced by shame. I realize, not for the first time, that Peeta's childhood was in many ways even tougher than my own. I set the ice pack down and turn, reaching for his hand. "I'm sorry Peeta," I whisper. He squeezes my hand just briefly, then lets it go, turning his attention to my hair, undoing the braid and carefully picking out all of the pine needles, bark and dried leaves. His fingers tenderly comb through the knots, never pulling. It feels so intimate, so impossibly good, it's too much like my dream, I want to tell him to stop, but then he carefully separates my hair into three sections and begins braiding it. I'm beyond surprised, Peeta only had brothers and his witch mother always wore her hair quite short, where on earth did he learn to braid?
"I didn't know you knew how to braid hair," I say softly. Peeta seems to startle a bit, as if he'd forgotten I was there.
"Oh, uh, we used to braid ropes of fondant to decorate the edges of cakes. I, uh, I've never tried it on hair before. It's different. Slipperier." His voice sounds deeper than usual and it makes my stomach muscles clench. He ties off the end and runs a hand down the length of the braid, reverently. Even though it's nothing but hair it makes me tremble.
"Can I look at your back?" he asks cautiously.
"Okay," I agree, though my voice shakes. I lean forward on my knees to give him better access and he slowly eases the hem of my shirt upwards. He hisses through his teeth as he gets a good look. "That bad?" I ask, trying to sound flippant but failing.
"How did this happen?" he queries softly, ignoring my question, as he begins applying ointment to the scrapes and bumps I sustained hitting branches in the fall. I'd run into the woods wearing only the shorts and thin cotton tunic I'd slept in, neither of which offered much protection.
"I hit quite a few branches when I fell. I'm lucky that I did though, I imagine I'd have hit the ground a lot harder otherwise," I admit. We sit in silence, broken only but my occasional whimper of pain as he cleans and bandages some of the bigger scrapes. Now that the shock of the fall has worn off I'm quite sore and achy. Sleeping tonight is going to be a challenge.
"How did you fall?" he asks finally, and I sense it's the question he's wanted to ask all along. "I've seen you climb trees, you're like a squirrel, you never fall."
"I used to fall all of the time when I was younger actually, though I haven't had a fall like this in many years. I…" I trail off, shaking my head. He's going to think I'm crazy if I tell him about the mockingjay. I'm not even sure if that happened, if it was real.
"You weren't wearing your hunting clothes. You didn't even have your bow Katniss." That odd edge is back in his voice. I turn slightly to look at his face. His eyes drop. "Did you… were you… trying… to hurt yourself?" he finally chokes out, avoiding my gaze. I blanch, is that what he thinks? That I jumped?
"No, no, nothing like that, I swear! It was just an accident!" I don't want him to be afraid that I'm going to kill myself; I might have wanted to before, but I haven't thought that way in months. Not really anyway. I mean, I still have days where I'm sure the world would be better without me, most days actually, but I haven't had any impulse to act on those thoughts since I left the Capitol.
"Why did you run away?" I knew this question was coming, it was inevitable, the confusion on his face when I fled this morning without a word. I shrug, how can I answer that? I turn back to study my knees. Peeta continues. "You had a nightmare. About me, right? About… about me… hurting you. And when you saw me you were afraid." His voice shakes, he sounds on the verge of tears. I can't let him think I'm afraid of him. I won't lie to Peeta anymore, even a lie of omission.
"I had a dream about you, not a nightmare. It wasn't a nightmare," I tell my lap. "I wasn't afraid, I'm not afraid of you Peeta. I was just… overwhelmed. I needed some space to think. I'm sorry I ran instead of just telling you." I can feel my cheeks heating, I'm glad he can't see my face. I take a deep breath, and then continue before he can think too much about what I just admitted. "I was in the tree, just thinking, trying to… trying to figure some things out. I can think better out there. And then there was... there was a mockingjay. It… it sang... It was Rue…" My heart is speeding up; I can feel the horror of hearing Rue's signal all over again. When I try to speak again all that comes out is a sob.
Peeta moves in front of me remarkably quickly, perching on the coffee table, his knees surrounding mine. I look up at him through blurry eyes and I can see he wants to comfort me, but he's afraid. Afraid that I'll reject him, afraid to frighten me, I'm not sure. I want to fall into his arms but I'm afraid too. But Peeta always seems to push aside his fears for me, always puts himself on the line, no matter how many times I rebuff him. When I look at him imploringly he opens his arms to me and I don't hesitate to launch myself into them. He pulls me onto his lap and holds me carefully, conscious of the cuts and bruises along my body, but I cling to him as tightly as I can. I need him to anchor me. He shushes me softly.
"Why are you always so nice to me?" I murmur into his shirt.
"What?" he says with a little laugh, but I notice he's trembling.
"You always take care of me, no matter how awful I am to you. Why?"
He sighs, and I can feel him shaking his head. "You know why Katniss," he says softly into my hair.
Peeta holds me a long time. I can't imagine he's comfortable sitting on the coffee table, supporting my weight with his prosthetic all askew, but he never complains, not in words or body language. He just holds me.
I nap on the couch while Peeta goes to see Greasy Sae; he returns with roasted pork and vegetables for dinner, and a salve made of arnica flowers. I barely touch the food but I'm grateful for the salve, my whole body aches. I don't protest when Peeta rubs it carefully into my bruises for me instead of having me do it myself. I'm lucky that I didn't break any bones in the fall, but I feel terrible nonetheless. By the time night falls I'm so stiff and sore it's a struggle just to pull myself up to standing. Peeta rushes over and scoops me up into his arms. This I do protest.
"Put me down Peeta, I can walk just fine, my legs aren't broken." I try, ineffectually, to push him away. That flash of anger is back in his eyes.
"No," he says with a firmness I seldom hear from Peeta. "You're hurt, and I'm going to take care of you, and that's the end of the discussion." He carries me upstairs and deposits me in his bathroom, turning on the taps to fill the tub. I scowl at him.
"You are not bathing me Peeta!" He rolls his eyes.
"No, I'm not bathing you Katniss. I'm going to run you a bath, and after you've soaked some of the pain and stiffness out of your muscles I'll help you get into bed. He marches away and I sit, mouth open, watching the tub fill. He's back quickly with a pair of my pyjamas tossed over his arm. He arranges them and a pair of fluffy towels near the tub, tests the water and then turns to me. "I'll be right outside the door. When you're done call me and I'll help you to bed." His tone and expression leave no room for dissent. He stomps out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
I stare at the door, then at the tub. I'm an adult, no one can tell me what to do Peeta! And yet, I know that soaking will help with the pain. Being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn isn't going to benefit me this time. With a deep sigh I peel off my clothing, it's a slow and painful process, raising my arms hurts, the drag of shredded cotton over scraped skin, the pull of adhesive tape as I remove some of the bandages. Sinking into the water is a strange sort of agony, even as my muscles sigh in relief the cuts and scrapes cry out in pain. I draw my knees up to my chest and cry silently. I cry for the pain, for the frustration, for my own stupidity. I cry because I keep pushing away the only person left who cares about me and I can't figure out why. Mostly I cry just to let it all out.
When my tears run out I wash my face in the cooling water. I don't wash my hair, both because my head aches and because lifting my arms that high is just so difficult. Getting out of the tub and drying myself is even more difficult, but I manage. The pyjamas Peeta left for me button up the front, so I don't have to pull anything over my head. I'm utterly exhausted when I'm done and though I'm reluctant to ask for help I'm not sure I have it in me to even walk to the bedroom just next door.
"Peeta?" I call softly. The door opens just a crack, and his voice, tentatively floats through the gap.
"Is it, uh, okay for me to come in?"
"Yes," I murmur tiredly. Dejectedly. He walks in, but when he sees my face his whole countenance softens. He picks me up with such aching gentleness it's all I can do to stop myself from crying again.
I'm already half asleep when he pulls the bed sheet over me, but my eyes widen in alarm as he moves to exit the room.
"You're not staying?"
He looks back at me. "I need to be awake to check on you," he says with a half-smile. "I'm going to paint awhile; I'll be back in a couple of hours."
"Oh," I say, but there's an obvious note of tears in that single syllable. He walks back and sits on the edge of the bed, taking my hand in his.
"Do you want me to stay? I can paint up here…" he trails off. I bite my lip hard, what I want is for him to climb into bed and hold me, but I can't ask. He's given enough of himself. So I simply nod.
Peeta gathers his things, setting up by the window near his bed and I fall asleep to the quiet swish swish of his brush against the canvas. It doesn't feel like I've slept long when he nudges me awake. I groan tiredly.
"Tell me your name and where you live," he says.
"What?" I whine. "You know who I am. Let me sleep Peeta." He chuckles.
"Come on Katniss, I have to make sure you're lucid."
"I'm not lucid Peeta, it's the middle of the night, I'm tired," I wail.
"Humour me," he entreats. I huff out an exasperated breath.
"Fine, I'm Katniss Everdeen, I'm eighteen years old, I live in District Twelve, and if you don't lie down Peeta Mellark and let me sleep I swear I'm going to kick you!" He raises his hands in surrender, but he's smiling. I reach out and pull back the sheet in silent invitation. He looks at me for a long time before nodding just slightly and climbing into bed beside me. I scoot over and rest my head on his chest, my ear over his heart. He stiffens, but then relaxes and wraps a gentle arm around me. I quickly fall asleep again to the sound of his heartbeat.
When I wake up in the morning I'm alone but there is a pile of what looks like several days' worth of my clothing folded neatly on top of the low dresser by Peeta's bedroom door. The dresser I know he doesn't use. Before I can think too much about it Peeta appears with a tray bearing cheese buns and tea, my favourite breakfast.
It takes more than a week before I can venture into my woods again. I stay at Peeta's house the entire time, and he takes care of me. He fusses over my injuries and I let him. I keep him company while he bakes. He takes over making dinner for us every night. We work together on the memory book, cling to each other as we remember and mourn. He never mentions my behaviour that day and neither do I but the tension between us gradually dissipates and we fall back into being comfortable together. When I finally do leave with my bow slung over my shoulder he makes me promise to come back early and to not overdo it, and I can't find it in myself to be annoyed.
Listening to his easy laugh, watching his blue eyes twinkle from under the mop of curls that falls over his forehead, I can't remember why, exactly, that dream upset me so much. I mean, Peeta is so handsome, and I'm only human. Is it really that bad to be attracted to him? I know he can't love me like before, the hijacking destroyed that, but he's so sweet, and he obviously cares for me deeply, as I do for him. What am I so afraid of?