A/N: Hey everyone, so…long time no writing. I know I haven't updated this story in a year, and this chapter had been basically finished by then, but for some reason I just didn't feel the motivation to continue this story. I feel terrible for that. I truly loved this story when I first started it, and it had so much potential in the beginning. It still does, and as I've moved on to other things in the meantime—new hobbies and sports, furthering my education, writing my first legitimate novel (which will take me years, but has already done wonders for my soul)—I've realized how much I miss fanfiction, this universe, the fanbase, and this story in particular. This story is my child, and it's one I care about deeply. I don't want to abandon it or give it away for adoption. I will do this story justice, no matter how much it might kill me. Hope you all enjoy!
The Doctor, 11 years old
The weather outside is disappointing. Again. It's yet another rainy day. This has to be the wettest spring of my life, but that's not saying much when you're as young as I am—or when it's not officially spring.
The raindrops smack against the thin glass frame with faint, but high-noted ticks, like the inner working gears of a watch's minute hand. Two particularly large droplets race each other down the inclined surface with ease. I'm betting the left-most one will overtake it, but the one on right ends up winning. Just my luck.
I sigh again, resting my head in my palm, smearing flour all over my chin and cheek. I should really be working but it's a slow day up front. Bannock already took off to meet his friends before the weather could worsen and Rye is upstairs in our room trying to catch some much-needed shuteye from an early wakeup—and he was never a morning person to begin with, a terrible trait for a baker's son. That just leaves me and Dad on our own in the bakery for the next few hours. I don't have it in me to blame them for leaving me here. After the morning rush, barely anyone is willing to brave the sleet and storm for a fresh loaf of bread they don't desperately need. And Mom… well, she's having one of her 'bad days' again. We've learned (rather quickly) that it's best to leave her alone in her room on those days. The doctor said she acts differently at these times, and that it's somehow a bad thing. It's good we're all content giving her space.
I don't like being alone, but at least I'm well entertained.
The window of the kitchen where we bake the majority of our products gives me a more than decent view of the yard and outlying trees. If the rain wasn't tampering with my view and distorting the image, I'd be sketching the backdrop with the order-pad I keep in my pocket. There's an apple tree out there, probably older than my parents, nearly skeleton bare from this winter, but with a few visible buds waiting to burst open at the first hint of warm sunshine. One look up at the cloudy sky reminds me that, although far from freezing compared to a month ago, the weather doesn't look like it's about to let up anytime soon. If it isn't snowing, it's pouring, Bannock complained in the morning; another sigh escapes me. I've missed the brightness of the sun. The warmth. The longer days playing outside. The cheerily prevalent mood in the air. Many other things.
There's always something different about Twelve when the sun is up, (being a baker's son, the picturesque sunrise greets me almost every day) and more so in the winter. As if it's a beautifier, highlighting the district with streaks of light like the makeup people on TV use. Rye says I should stop watching Capitol channels. He says I'll turn into a girl.
I shake my head of that thought because it's not a pretty picture. But Rye also says I should start thinking about girls at around my age.
That's not a problem, I've given it some thought but they're not all that interesting. Well, most of them aren't, except… my mind can only ever focus on one special girl. One with two braids of dark hair, olive skin, and wide mercury gray—
"Peeta!" Dad calls, snapping me out of my daydreams. I blink back to reality, wiping the flour off my hands on a random towel and run out of the swinging door to meet him in the storefront.
He's standing by the mudroom, slipping his burly arms through his heavy winter raincoat and pulling the zipper closed. "I'm heading out for a second, buddy. Need to grab a few things from the grocer for tomorrow's batch of tarts and scones."
I look out the display window, which showcases the pouring weather and the rush of ground water on the streets and sidewalks with concern. "But it's still storming outside." I point out.
I don't like the idea of him going outside in that storm.
He notices my trepidation, kneeling before me to match my gaze at eye-level. "Don't worry, I won't be out long. No more than ten minutes tops, I promise. Your old man just has to carry out a few chores," he says, lips tugged up in his patented crooked grin.
I nod understandingly. "Okay."
"Think you can handle the whole shop by yourself?" he asks, eyebrows raised conspiratorially.
"I'm not a baby, Dad." I say, unable to resist rolling of my eyes. He laughs loudly, trying to ruffle my already messy hair. I swat at his hands, embarrassed.
"Don't remind me, but listen, Peet," his tone shifts noticeably. It becomes something more serious, causing me to focus right away. "Your Mother isn't feeling well these days. So I need you to take good care of the bakery. No running around, no horseplay that'll disturb her, alright? You can man the counter till I get back."
"But she'll get better eventually, right?"
His face falls as he pauses for a long moment before he sighs, the sadness evidently breaking through the surface of his normally light, gaily disposition. It's a change I so rarely see from him.
"I hope so, Peet. I really hope so."
There's an edge to his voice, an uncertainty looming in it. I realize that's about as honest an answer as I'll get, and then he pushes his way out the mudroom's door, into the unrelenting gray skies and downpour.
I do as I'm told and man the counter and register vigilantly. It's too high for me to just stand there without assistance so I reach for the stool. Both Rye and Bannock finished using the thing when they were around my age, but I've always been the shortest runt of the bunch. I'm careful not to make too much noise, since the bedrooms are directly above on the second floor. I sit down as the minutes tick by.
Nothing happens, as expected, and dust particles are beginning to settle along the hardwood of the counter. Or, at least, I'm imagining them to be. I've never been particularly impatient, but growing up in a regularly tight-knit, crowded household, lonesome and solitary moments are a rarity. It's not something I find very comforting.
I'm contemplating going upstairs to fetch my sketchbook to pass the time. My order pad, albeit better than nothing, is far too small for my taste and—
And someone is standing outside the bakery, ducking into a shadow when I raise my gaze to identify whom it might be.
I'm frozen with fright for a long second, until I catch a glimpse of him/her through the display window, and suddenly my mysterious window-stalker doesn't seem as terrifying anymore. It's definitely female, judging by the way the long strings of hair follow her form into the shadows. She's not very tall either, no more than an inch or two more than me. I come round the counter and approach the mudroom slowly, peaking my head out the door. Wind slaps me in the face, chilling my exposed skin and causing a shiver to run through me. The tent above my head keeps out the rain, but little else. I feel for whoever is walking these streets, exposed to the elements.
My window-stalker comes into view as I fully step out into the cold in nothing but my thin sweater and a flour streaked apron. She's backed into the alley by the side of our shop window, a wild fear profound in her silver irises. A familiar silver…
"Katniss?" I breathe. "What are you doing here?"
She seems at a loss for words, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. She looks more afraid of me than I was of her.
"It's freezing, come inside." I hold the door open for her. The warm air of the ovens escapes deliciously into the open, taking the edge off the shivers and goose bumps of the frigid breeze.
The intake of a breath, the way her eyes almost flutter to a close, and the slight parting of her lips alerts me she feels it too. And any remaining resolve she might have cracks as she slowly moves past me into the shop.
I'm crazy. What am I doing? I think to myself. I should be manning the bakery, not playing around or inviting friends over. On the other hand, Katniss and I can't be described as friends. This is the first time we've ever spoken face-to-face since kindergarten, despite my keen interest in her. She looked so lost, so…feral, like an abandoned creature wondering the pavement, I couldn't resist helping in any way I can. Even if she is a stranger. And besides, it was the polite thing to do. It was only recently that her father had been claimed in a mine accident; this could be my way of showing condolence.
She stands frozen in the entrance hall, where customers would line up to the counter or sit at the rickety benches. I move to sit back at my stool, mindful of my initial duties, and face her from behind the counter.
The room is small by most standards; its purpose simply for customers to place orders and leave, but the distance between us feels vast. She looks so out of place with her baggy thermal trousers and the tweed jacket meant for someone twice—or possibly three times—her breadth. The wild glint in her eyes has thankfully receded, though a hint of awkwardness marks her posture.
We're both silent, but not for long.
"You… called me by my name," Katniss murmurs, just audible enough not to be a whisper. Her are fixed firmly on her worn boots. "I didn't think you'd even know it."
"Why wouldn't I?" My brows furrow, keeping my voice low enough for my mother's sake. We may not be close but we are in the same grade at school. That should merit something, right?
She gives a nonchalant shrug, her tweed jacket almost falling completely off her rail-thin shoulders. She then holds it tighter around her frame. It comes to mind that the jacket might actually belong to her father, since he has no use for it now.
I take a deep breath, "I'm… sorry." She looks up quickly at my words, confused. "About your dad, I mean. My dad said he was a really cool guy when they were young. They weren't friends or anything, but they went to school and he said they knew each other well and—"
And now I'm babbling and bringing up memories of her dead father. Please somebody shoot me. Luckily, she holds a hand up to me, clearly a signal for me to stop. Her expression is tense, as if she's fighting the urge to cringe and her eyes are squeezed shut for a long time.
She relaxes into a blank expression with vacant eyes, saying, "Thank you… for your sympathy."
Like her face, her words are said without any emotion, as if it's become an effortless saying, a routine. I imagine it has over the months.
I'm at a loss of what to say next, embarrassed and regretting everything I've spoken thus far. Idiot! I mentally slap myself. Can't you say something that won't offend her! Then an idea comes to my mind and I brighten up.
"Are you hungry?" I ask her, enthusiastically. The vacant glare instantly morphs into one of suspicion and shock, as if I've solved some puzzle. I don't let it bother me, this is something I excel at. "We have the best bread in the district. White, whole grain, rye, banana nut is actually my favorite. We have a lot left over today 'cause the weather is keeping people away, would you like some? It's a shame to put it to waste."
Her mouth is doing that opening and closing movement again, as if she's internally debating the idea. I like how her eyes are suddenly alight once again, it's much prettier on her grey irises than the hollow, coldness of a moment ago.
"I… I don't have any money," she protests, meekly. "Or anything to trade."
I shake my head. "It's all on me." She still seems to be struggling with herself, to the point where she's looking uncomfortable.
Her indecision actually emboldens me more. I go around the counter and come back with two loaves from off the shelf. They're whole wheat, mixed with nuts and raisins with hints of cinnamon, only slightly over baked to keep them warm with the lack of customers. But they're rich and soft to the touch. It couldn't be more perfect for a cold rainy day.
"Here, take them." I nearly plead with her, bagging them and extending it toward her.
She's still hesitant, and her bottom lip is starting to quiver, as if she's going to cry. I'm alarmed by the amount of emotion she's struggling with over two loaves of bread. I almost pull my hand back, an apology already on my lips if I've offended her—yet again!—in some way or done something wrong. But then she leaps at me like an animal, her arms encircling me in a surprisingly tight embrace, even through the thick layers of clothes she's wearing. She breathes in deeply, a sound escaping as if she's chocking on the very air.
"Thank you," she whispers, almost incoherently. I feel a pair of lips graze my cheek for a fleeting second and the bag of bread slip from my fingers. And then she's running out the door.
I don't know how long I stay frozen in that exact spot, an impossible warmth spreading from my cheek down to my toes, my fingers still curled as if there were something to hold onto, but my father comes back eventually. It could've been a few seconds, or a few hours. It's hard to tell as I focus on the moisture still attached to my left cheek.
"Peeta, I'm back. Damn cold is almost unbearab—" he pauses, almost with an edge of concern. "Peeta… why are blushing?"
The Patient, present day
If there's one thing that's happened to have gone right for me today, it was the pleasure of a dreamless sleep. One horrible nightmare is enough for the day, but I'm too smart to think it'll be my last. It doesn't stop me from hoping though.
My eyes flutter ajar as I wake up to an empty room, the soft sunlight of a cloudy morning seeping through the fixed windows. A sigh of disappointment escapes me when I realize this is only day two of my undesired stay at the hospital. My first thought is that it must be only 7 in the morning, judging by the faint brightness. Who knows how many long countless other mornings are awaiting me in this prison?
The hurry of footsteps perks my ears and all the bustling noises outside my door startle me into complete consciousness. I turn my body in their direction and listen intently, pushing myself up off the bed in what must likely resemble the position of a defensive feral cat. My muscles are as taut as a coil. I'm transfixed on everything I'm hearing through the other side of the door.
I've been waking up to a soundless house for too many months for the background noise not to capture my immediate attention.
I slowly sink back down into a more relaxed posture once I've established the lack of an obvious danger, though the noise has yet to settle down. It's still very early. I don't want to lie around being inactive and lazy, but exiting the—begrudgingly—comfortable room I'm in is not as desirable either. So, I settle for tossing and turning, both in my bed and in my head.
The events and conversations of last night flow back into my memory, now that I have an ample amount of time to think over them.
"Peeta, my sister is dead."
He knows. I told him. He asked for it, and I still have nightmares to this day. I have absolutely no idea how he can be of any help in my situation.
There are quite a few things I vividly recall after those thoughts, however—one of them being to remove the straps completely off of me. Not loosening them, like the nurses had done. They were gone. I was immensely thankful for that, but I dared not convey my gratitude. I was still in the emotionally vulnerable stage of spewing out the secret I never wanted to tell him.
Peeta Mellark is obviously a very dangerous man if he can get me to do something like that. How is it that he can have this much of an effect on me? It's unsettling, to say the least. We didn't talk much after that, I can tell he wanted to, but most likely thought it was best for another day.
He seemed saddened by the news, to his credit, in an admirably respectful way.
But everyone grieved once they heard about Prim. She was loved immensely, by just having an irresistible personality. She was the social butterfly, the comforting best friend, the life of the crowd. No one cared for the older, brooding, defensive sister left to handle the fallout. No one's ever stuck around for very long.
The fact that I have no memory of how it happened is perhaps the worst of all. I can't give Peeta the answers he's looking for. One day I had a sister, and the next, I didn't. I had woken up in a hospital in the Capitol, 2 days had passed, a doctor told me. They suspected a car accident. There's no way for me to verify that without a working memory. I left the Capitol for District 12 about a week later, without a sibling.
I despise being back in one, the thought tugging at my chest. Maybe it's just another bad dream, a part of me still thinks. Maybe I'll wake up from this.
My door opens suddenly, and I flinch at the movement, my muscles going rigid once again. A chubby nurse slips inside, the rumble of noises outside sound much closer without the barrier to distort and muffle them. The first thing that strikes me about her, besides the fact she's about to invade my personal space, is her ridiculously fake green hair.
"Good morning, deary," she chirps as if everything was well in the world and tragedy only a fairy tale to scare children. She prattles on, "You're an early riser, aren't you? So nice to see others enjoying the new day, not everybody is a morning person around here."
The preppy nurse approaches me, my guard not dropping for a second. She reaches for my injured arm, signaling with her eyes this is what she's here for, and I reluctantly allow her to examine it, an irritated huff escaping me as I turn my gaze away.
"Hm," she hums appreciatively, removing my bandages and cleaning what remains of the wound with a clean cloth dabbed in alcohol. "That's healing up great, thankfully it wasn't too deep. Could've gone straight to the bone with how thin you are. Meaning you get an extra big breakfast today."
She talks too much. I'm not that thin. I wish it had been a deeper cut. But I offer no objections to the extra food. As far as nursing goes, she's not bad. My mother wasn't nearly as talkative though.
"How long will I be here?" I ask automatically. It's a ridiculous question no doubt, but I'm not sure what the answer will be out of my green-haired caregiver. My curiosity outweighs my suspicion.
She returns a shy, sympathetic smile. "Sorry, honey. That's not for me to decide." But then she leans in close as if to share a secret, like with her fellow nurses behind the reception desk discussing crushes and hospital gossip. The thought nearly makes me gag. "I do know that they'll be transferring you today, probably to Dr. Abernathy's ward. For now though, any questions you have, send them to Dr. Mellark, he'll be here soon to check up on you," she pulls back, finishing that last part with a knowing wink. "You're lucky, he's one of the cute ones in these parts."
The idea of gagging still hasn't receded from my mind, though now it's mixed with a pull in my stomach and nervousness at the foreboding awkwardness.
After she's finished her work and wrapped me up once more, she stands to leave. "Wait," I catch her with my words before she has the chance. "I didn't get your name."
She's slightly caught off guard by the statement. I suspect it's because I'm not great at making nice or small talk, but an ally would be tremendously helpful in my current situation. Peeta can't be relied on. He's too dangerous; he keeps bringing up these…feelings outside of my control. I'll think of a better word to describe that later. The nurse, however, seems as harmless as a fly. She smiles widely and sweetly after a brief second, "Octavia, at your service." She curtsies like a princess. My returned smile falls flat.
"Breakfast will be in hour," she says. "Why don't you take a look around the courtyard. It's no good being cooped up in here all day, and you look like you could use some fresh air, honey." She gives me another not-so-innocent knowing look, but this time I don't understand it. The word 'courtyard' though, has me itching to get out of this bed. I miss the sun, the breeze, the sky. I need to know it's still there even if I'm trapped in hell.
She leaves the room silently, and I wait all of about four seconds before ripping the covers off and out the door as well.
I'm pretty satisfied with this chapter as a whole, nearly 4k words! It might mostly be filler and fluff, but who doesn't enjoy that on occasion? All I can say is, whether it takes me 3 weeks or 3 months, this story will continue to be updated. I'm so glad to be back and enjoying writing again. Don't forget to drop a review! Every word of encouragement counts. Till next time.