Chapter 4
It was noon on my fourth day, and I couldn't be more relieved that I only had seven hours left. The last few days had been unbearable, and I could barely bring myself to look Katniss in the eyes. My actions were etched into my mind, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn't shake the guilt. She could never know. She would never know.
When I had to check on her, I kept it quick. I'd glance at the monitor, note the drainage from the chest tube (which they finally removed yesterday after her lungs showed significant improvement), and ask the obligatory, "Do you need anything. She more aware of her surroundings now, but she always waited until I left to sleep, as if my presence kept her on edge. Layla, who had her on the second and third nights, told me Katniss slept through the night without any trouble.
I knew she hated the ventilator, though. The way her eyes followed the rise and fall of her chest, the tension in her hands as she gripped the blankets—it was all too obvious, and the sedation meds would just agitate her more when they started to wear off. She wanted it out. But the doctors were hesitant, worried her lungs still weren't strong enough to handle it on their own. Every time I checked her, I could see the frustration building in her eyes, her body tense as she lay there, helpless but alert.
By the fourth day, her will had sharpened into something like desperation. She'd started fighting the vent, trying to pull against it, as though she could force her body to breathe without help. When I went in that afternoon, her eyes locked onto mine, and for the first time in days, I couldn't avoid her gaze. There was a plea in them, a silent beg that twisted something inside of me.
That look… I couldn't stand it. She didn't say anything, didn't have to. I knew what she wanted; I've seen that look many times before in previous patients who couldn't stand being a victim to their own bodies betrayal. With a heavy sigh, I caved.
"I think we should extubate her," I said to Dr. Thorn and the other doctors during rounds. "She's awake, calm, the chest tube's out, and her color's improving. I think she'll be fine," I argued. Dr. Thorn went in to check the vent. Katniss looked from him to me, and I could tell she thought something was wrong. I forced a smile, trying to reassure her that everything was fine.
Dr. Thorn straightened up from checking the vent and looked at Katniss. "Miss Everdeen, Peeta says you've been doing really well. How about we get that tube out?"
Katniss's eyes widened with a mix of surprise and hope, and she gave a quick nod. One of the respiratory therapists stepped into the room, and I gently helped sit Katniss up, carefully placing a towel across her chest. She shot me a puzzled look, and I had to bite back a laugh.
"It's just in case you throw up," I said softly, smoothing a loose strand of hair from her face. The touch caught me off guard, a stark reminder of how little I'd let myself get close since that night. My smile faltered, and I quickly pulled my hand back, noticing the brief flicker of hurt cross her face. It stung more than I wanted to admit.
The therapist deflated the cuff inside her throat, and I gave Katniss a reassuring nod. "If you feel like you need to throw up, it's okay. I'll take care of you afterward." She gave me a slight nod in return, closing her eyes in silent anticipation.
I held my breath as the RT counted down. On three, the tube slid out, and, just as I'd expected, Katniss gagged and vomited immediately.
"Yay! All done," I said, trying too hard to sound upbeat, while she coughed and retched. Grabbing the suction, I gently cleared her mouth, offering rushed apologies. "Sorry, I know it's awful. Just give me a second."
Eventually, her coughing subsided, and she started smacking her lips together, probably trying to rid herself of the bitter taste. I wiped her face, relieved to find the towel had caught most of it. Afterward, I placed an oxygen mask over her face, adjusting the flow to help her take deeper breaths.
I crouched down to her eye level and gave her a small smile. "You okay?" I asked softly.
Katniss nods, opening her mouth to speak, but then stops, wrinkling her nose in clear discomfort. I catch the embarrassed look on her face and smirk a little, realizing she's horrified by her own breath. Reaching for the bedside table, I grab the mouth swab I've been using throughout my shift. It's minty, though nowhere near as refreshing as a proper tooth brushing.
"I know you'll want to brush your teeth, but they need to run a swallow test first," I explain gently, swabbing the inside of her mouth. "After that, we can brush and get you some mouthwash. And if you want, I'll take a look at your stomach too—maybe convince them to pull out this annoying thing," I add, tapping her feeding tube with a small grin.
She nods, taking steady breaths, then whispers, "Thank... you."
For the first time in days, I smile—genuinely this time. Her progress, however small, lifts a weight off my chest. I head out to update the doctors, determined to advocate for her again.
"If her stomach sounds good, I think we should remove the feeding tube too," I suggest.
Dr. Thorn listens carefully, then clasps a hand on my shoulder. "Peeta, I understand that you want her to recover quickly, but we're worried she might fall back into her old habits—starving herself, withdrawing. She didn't eat for days, maybe weeks, except for small bits here and there. She's been through a lot, and we don't want her to relapse. We need to tread carefully."
His expression softens, filled with sympathy. "We want our Mockingjay to get better, too. She's done so much for all of us. And Peeta," he adds, his voice kind, "you're doing a good job taking care of her."
The words hit me harder than I expected. I nod, appreciating his encouragement, but inside, the weight of everything—the past, her pain, my feelings—it all churns like a storm I can't quite control.
I nod, pressing my lips together, feeling a wave of defeat wash over me. Of course they'd rather keep the tube in than give her a chance to reclaim any independence. She's their Mockingjay, and they'll do whatever it takes to ensure she survives. That's the goal for every patient, sure, but with her, it almost feels cruel—like she's being protected so fiercely that she's not allowed to live.
I walk back into Katniss's room, finding her sitting up, one leg tucked under her while the injured one lies outstretched. She looks better—alert—but the exhaustion is evident in the dark circles under her eyes. She hasn't been sleeping well. I move across the room and grab the medications I should have given her earlier, setting them on the counter. Pulling on a pair of gloves, I draw the meds into a syringe and administer them through her IV.
Katniss watches me closely, her eyes following every movement as I give the injection and flush the line. Then she looks back at me, her gaze steady, searching my face. I avoid meeting her eyes.
"Prim... showed you... how to do that... didn't she?" she whispers, her voice strained but clear enough to make my heart tighten.
I pause, capping the line before tossing the trash into the bin. Her words hit harder than I expected, and I decide that whatever she decides to talk to me about in regards to Prim, I would cautiously respond.
"She... did it... just like that," she continues, tracing her finger over the bandage. "Never missed."
I let out a small chuckle, trying to lighten the moment. "Just like her sister."
I turn to leave but remember my earlier task. "Hey, I need to check your stomach again," I say, grabbing my stethoscope.
She surprises me by lying back without hesitation and pulling her gown up to her chest, the blanket barely covering her hips. My breath catches for a second, and I struggle to suppress the groan building in my throat. It takes me a beat to refocus, placing the stethoscope on her abdomen. The soft rumbling of hunger fills my ears—a sound that makes me smile.
"Yeah, I'm definitely going to ask them to pull this stupid thing," I say, tapping the feeding tube gently. "You have bowel sounds, and I'm sure I can find you something you'd like to eat."
She grins at the thought, the light of hope flickering back in her eyes.
Delly was at her desk, quietly humming a tune when her little patient, Cara, called out for her. In true Delly fashion, she rolled her chair across the floor, gliding into the room with a playful grin. I shook my head, laughing at her silliness.
"Hey, Peeta?" she called out. I got up and walked to the doorframe, finding Delly seated in her rolling chair with Cara standing in front of her, clapping excitedly. "Could you grab me some bubbles?" Delly asked, and Cara, almost losing her balance in her excitement, jumped up and down.
I smiled and happily went to fetch the "bubble supply" from the front desk, as Delly liked to call it. On the way back, I decided to blow a few bubbles into Katniss's room, watching as she looked up, her eyes tracking the trail of bubbles back to me. I couldn't see her full smile behind the mask, but the way it shifted told me she was smiling. It warmed me.
Then, with a flourish, I entered Cara's room, blowing a burst of bubbles into the air. "Ta-da!" I said, handing her the bubbles. Cara giggled, trying to catch them, while Delly looked up at me with a smile—though I could see the sadness in her eyes.
Our bubble supply wasn't just about fun, though Cara—and all our little patients—deserved that. It was also a crucial part of their recovery. When patients couldn't get out of bed for long stretches, especially after respiratory illnesses or surgeries, fluid could build up in their lungs, leading to pneumonia or other complications. Blowing bubbles forced deep breaths, making it a simple, playful exercise that helped prevent fluid accumulation.
Cara hadn't been out of bed in weeks, no matter how much we coaxed her. She had a rare form of leukemia, and the disease had weakened her muscles and bones to the point where she struggled just to stand. Today was the first time I'd seen her on her feet in a long while, a small but significant victory. Delly must have heard the crackling in her lungs, the telltale sign of fluid buildup. The bubbles weren't just for fun—they were for her health, too.
Watching Cara laugh and play, I couldn't help but feel a pang in my chest. This moment of joy, though fleeting, was a reminder of why we did what we did.
I glanced at Katniss again and a thought hit me—I headed back to the front and grabbed another container of bubbles. When I returned, I blew a fresh wave into her room. As I stepped in after them, I saw her holding a bubble in her hand, studying it like it was something fragile and magical.
"Hey, that's a cool trick," I said, blowing more bubbles her way. She reached out to catch another one, but it popped the moment it touched her fingers. "Here, let's see you give it a try." I handed her the container, leaning against the wall with my hands in my pockets, watching her curiously.
She hesitated, timidly opening the container. She lifted the wand but stopped short, realizing she still had her face mask on. Her cheeks flushed red as I chuckled softly, stepping forward to pull the mask up onto her forehead. She rolled her eyes at me and slid it down to her chin, the oxygen still flowing gently onto her face.
"Go ahead," I urged, sitting on the edge of her bed.
Katniss took a deep breath, but it was too much too soon, and she coughed. I placed a hand on the bed next to her, steadying her, and encouraged her to try again. This time, she inhaled more cautiously, just enough air, and blew softly into the wand. Bubbles flew toward me, and I squeezed my eyes shut to avoid them landing in my face.
Then, I heard it—the soft, melodic sound of her giggling. My heart raced, and I felt warmth rush through me. It was the first time I'd heard her laugh, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. I glanced at her again, trying to hide the way my face softened, trying to keep my cool. But it was pointless.
I was totally head over heels for this girl.
She kept blowing bubbles, and though she coughed a few times, I noticed each breath was deeper and more controlled. Good, I thought. You can't afford to get sick again.
The next day was my day off, but like clockwork, I still woke up at the crack of dawn. Unable to shake the habit, I decided to go for a run. Over the years, I'd realized that being able to pull dead weight wasn't just about willpower—it required strength. Delly had always said that your back was your greatest asset in our line of work, and I hadn't believed her until I nearly threw mine out a few weeks into the job.
I laced up my sneakers, grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, and threw on a black tee and gray sweatpants before heading out the door. Staying in shape was important to me, especially after how much I let myself go after the war. When I first returned to District 12, I had nothing—no place to live, no food. I even considered going back to 13, but then I was offered a choice: stay and help rebuild the district in exchange for lodging, or leave. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving again. I felt like I had already failed my family, and running away a second time wasn't an option.
The "lodging" they promised, though, wasn't much—just an empty apartment with no bed, no stove, no fridge, and cold water that never warmed up. I lost so much weight during that time. My ribs jutted out, my face sunken, and even though we got meals while working on the rebuild, it was never enough. I craved the fresh bread my father used to sneak us, the bread that would earn my brothers and me a beating from my mother when she caught us eating it instead of selling it.
I worked hard and saved up enough to buy an oven. I couldn't afford to have it installed, so I had to figure that part out on my own. But once I did, I started baking again—simple bread at first, then things I bought from the small stalls that popped up around town. As the rebuilding slowed down, they decided I'd earned my place in the apartment and let me keep it. By the time the work was done, I'd saved enough for a mattress and a fridge. Everything else came later, once I became a nurse.
Looking back, it's almost strange how little I needed back then. Cold water and hard floors weren't anything new. The merchant class wasn't immune to hunger or discomfort. But I survived, and eventually, I started to live again.
I continued my run from Merchant Circle through the town and back to my apartment, when a sudden thought crossed my mind: maybe I should make something for Katniss. I'd probably say it was for the unit, too—they deserved a treat. But honestly, my thoughts were on her.
Before I hit the shower, I went to my living room for my usual workout. I started with lifting weights, then moved on to squats, and some other exercises I'd picked up by observing the routines of other guys around the district. My arms grew heavy and sore, and my legs felt like they were made of noodles. Exhausted but satisfied, I took a quick shower to wash away the sweat and grime of my run.
Once cleaned up, I turned my attention to baking. I spent the better part of the afternoon creating a treat that had become a rare indulgence in my childhood. My father used to make cheese buns only on special occasions, usually birthdays, when we were lucky enough to have cheese. The bread was soft, almost pillow-like, and when done right, the cheese would melt and ooze out in a gooey, delicious mess with every bite.
As I worked the dough, my imagination got the best of me and I was imagining Katniss all over again. I imagined touching her; picturing the pillowy softness of her skin, what little I could see of the breasts during my days with her infiltrated the depths of my imagination. I wasn't just touching them in my mind, I was massaging them as I was handling the dough. I stopped and looked down at the dough, then followed the trail of heat that went straight to the tip of my growing arousal, and I shook my head. Jesus I needed to stop this. This is dough.
Not Katniss's breasts.
Not the perfect perky mounds on her now healing chest that I could just put my mouth on if she'd ever allow it…
"Stop!" I shouted at myself. I wiped my forehead on my upper arm and sighed, slamming the dough down on the table. I get I'm a young guy, sex isn't the forefront but its up there, but this was ridiculous- not to mention extremely inappropriate.
I quickly shaped the dough into small balls, each one stuffed with a generous helping of cheese. After painting a thin layer of garlic butter over the top, I slid them into the oven. As the warmth of the oven began to fill the small kitchen, I felt a familiar sense of comfort and relief. The routine of baking was soothing, a welcome distraction from the worries that had been gnawing at me.
While the cheese buns baked, I took the opportunity to clean up and reflect on Katniss's situation. I thought about how wonderful it would be if she didn't have to rely on a feeding tube or endure the discomfort of the Foley catheter. I knew how much she loathed both, and I was determined to do everything I could to help her through this. I resolved to push Ryn to let me work the next few days, giving me the chance to be there for Katniss when she needed it most.
As I waited for the buns to finish, I couldn't help but think of how much Katniss loved cheese buns. I can remember the first time I made them in 13, and her tentative and hesitant hand reached for the ball, examining it as if it was a piece of foreign metal. She scraped the top with her nail, smelled it, then pulled it apart which created a long cheese string. The steam from inside floated into her nose, and her eyes rolled shut. Prim had told her to take a bite, but not after pulling the cheese string further and stuffing it into her mouth to suck up like a noodle. I smiled at the memory, and although Ryn didn't have as much of an awe inspiring first taste, I knew they were a favorite of hers. So, it was purely coincidental that I chose to bring them today—absolutely no correlation to my feelings, of course. It was simply a treat that seemed fitting for the occasion.
When the timer dinged, I pulled the buns out of the oven, the rich, savory aroma filling the apartment. I carefully packed them up, hoping that they would bring a bit of comfort and joy to Katniss, even if just for a moment.
As I made my way to the hospital, I spotted Haymitch once again herding the geese back towards home. He looked up and gave me a nod of acknowledgment. I had baked a generous batch of cheese buns and figured it wouldn't hurt to offer him one. I'd taken care of him before, and I knew food wasn't very important to him. He had stated that he had assigned him self to an all liquid diet- that being the liquids that came in illegally packaged bottles from peoples basements. Panem still had its rules, and making a good drink that could knock your socks off, or kill a small man, was not high on the agenda to reverse. So, the black market for drinks continued even after the Rebellion. Guess its good to have some traditions never die.
"Haymitch!" I called out. He turned and walked over, the geese trailing behind him. I handed him a cheese bun and glanced down at the geese.
"Thanks," he said, taking a bite and eyeing the birds. "Ah, yeah, so that's Duck and that's Quack." I looked back up at him, puzzled.
"So you were going to name your duck 'Duck'?" I asked, struggling to keep a straight face. Haymitch rolled his eyes and waved me off. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not very creative. Sweetheart thought it was funny too."
Sweetheart was the nickname Haymitch had given to Katniss. It was amusing how the name had grown on her over time. On the surface, Katniss was anything but sweet—she could be selfish, bratty, and stubborn. But once you got to know her and understood her fierce desire for a better world, it was easy to look past her rough edges and see the warmth beneath.
Haymitch looked at me, and I realized I had drifted off, lost in thoughts about Katniss. He took another bite of the cheese bun, his expression serious. "How is she?" he asked, his mouth full but his tone earnest. I shifted on my feet, feeling a bit uncomfortable discussing her. Lately, it seemed all I did was think and talk about Katniss.
"She's okay. They took the tube out of her throat," I replied, gesturing to the box of cheese buns I was carrying. "I was planning to check on her while dropping these off at the unit."
I hesitated for a moment, furrowing my brows as I looked at Haymitch. "Wait, how did you know she was in the hospital?" I asked, genuinely curious.
He sucked in his lips and raised his eyebrows, a fleeting look of hesitation crossing his face as if he were about to fabricate something. "That morning you saw me outside—yeah, I know you saw me. I was drunk, not oblivious," he said, his voice tinged with a rough edge. "I was chasing these geese back to the house. They'd followed Katniss into the woods. When she hit the ground, they came running out." His gaze dropped to the ground, as though he were reliving the scene. "Honestly, I thought she was dead."
There was a palpable weight of dread, sadness, and pity etched on his face. It was clear, no matter how gruff Haymitch might act, he deeply cared for Katniss. He had seen her through two Games and played a pivotal role in the Rebellion, a rebellion sparked by the tragic loss of her partner in the Quarter Quell. There was more to the story of the previous tributes and their return than just strategy—Haymitch's affection and loyalty were undeniable.
I glanced at Haymitch and then down at my shoes, unsure of what to say. "Well, I'll tell her you said hello, if you'd like."
Haymitch nodded, his lips pressed into a tight line. He seemed to want to say more but clamped his mouth shut and gave a brief nod of thanks. "Thanks for the cheese bun."
As I turned to leave, I heard him call my name. His sad expression was replaced by a familiar, snide smirk. He held up his finger, attempting to speak, probably something vile, but stopped suddenly. Dropping his hand, he chuckles and tilts his head up. "Tell her I said she's doing a really shitty job of staying alive."