the next will never come (part 7/?, hunger games, r)
the next will never come
"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."
katniss/peeta, katniss/gale, au, r. katniss makes it through her final reaping. part 7 of ?
On Monday morning, Mr. Mellark stops me on my way through the kitchen. “Katniss, hold up a second.”
I freeze, my heart dropping into my stomach as I watch him hustle off into the little office in the back, next to the bathroom. He’s upset at how I’ve treated Peeta. He’s going to reprimand me. He’s going to fire me.
“It’s payday!” he announces cheerfully, eyes on the little stack of cash he’s thumbing through as he walks towards me. He stops short and frowns when he sees my face. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” I say quickly, gratefully accepting the money. “Thank you.”
“Well, you’ve earned it.” He nods, but pauses just as he’s turning away. “I’m sorry it can’t be more,” he says quietly. “It’s lean times for everyone, I suppose.”
I smile weakly. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the Mellarks aren’t quite as well off as I’d once imagined. They’re doing better than my family, obviously - they can afford to buy my squirrels, after all - but Peeta and Brody never seem to eat anything but hard, dry leftovers from the bakery at lunchtime.
His smile is sad in return, and as I watch him amble away, I notice Peeta looking at me from the other end of the room. I meet his eyes and he turns away quickly.
I decide: I’m going to do it today. I’m going to swallow my pride and apologize.
---
All morning I peek through the little window on the swinging door to see if it’s the right moment to approach Peeta. I don’t want his brother or dad to overhear me, and I don’t want them to see me pulling him aside - I already know what kind of smug little smile I’d get from Brody for that.
Peeta’s finally left alone a little before lunchtime, when Brody leaves to make some deliveries. His back is to me as he kneads a ball of dough on one of the long metal tables. With a last glance at the front door - no customers - I slip into the kitchen.
He doesn’t even notice me until I’m at his side. Peeta wouldn’t have lasted long in the Games, that’s for sure. “Hey,” he says, jerking back a little in surprise. “Wow, you’re quiet.”
I smile a little. “Years of practice in the woods.”
He nods, turning back to his dough. It’s sticky and spongy, clinging to his fingers. “What’s up?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Peeta flips the ball of dough over and begins working the other side with his hands. His nails are cut very short, I notice, probably so he doesn’t get batter and dough caught up underneath them when he’s working. There are little white scars all over his hands, too - burns from the ovens, I think. “What for?”
“Last week.” I swallow, shifting uncomfortably. “You were just trying to be nice, and…I shouldn’t hold that against you. And…I think we could be friends, if you still want. I don’t have many friends,” I finish quietly.
Peeta’s eyes don’t leave the table, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitching, like he’s suppressing a smile. “Okay,” he says evenly. “We can be friends.”
“Okay,” I agree, feeling oddly shy, now that we’ve said it out loud. “Good.” I back away, leaving him to his bread.
But he doesn’t let me leave - he reaches out and grabs my hand. “Well, wait,” he says, dropping it quickly. “You’re going to say we’re friends, and then not even hang out with me?”
He’s teasing me, I think. “I have to work,” I say uncertainly. “There’s no one out front.”
Peeta cranes his neck around. Maybe he’s tall enough to see through the little window on the door from here - I’m certainly not. “I’ll keep an eye on it,” he says, smiling down at me. “Do you want to help me make some bread?”
Peeta splits the dough into two sections and shows me how to knead the dough properly, digging his knuckles in deep. It’s kind of fun, surprisingly. And he stays true to his word, brushing my arm gently with his elbow when a customer enters the bakery twenty minutes later.
I rush towards the door, skidding to a stop right before I swing through it. “Thanks,” I say.
“Anytime,” he replies.
---
Things are back to normal the next morning, and it’s a relief. All three of the Mellarks greet me when I arrive in the morning, and Peeta shows up out front before the first hour has even passed.
“So I asked my dad, and he said if you want to, you can do some more work in the kitchens instead of standing out here all day.” He’s got a nervous energy this morning, shifting on the balls of his feet next to me.
“Really?” I ask, skeptical. “What if a customer comes in?”
“They can get our attention with this.” Peeta produces a little silver bell from the pocket in his apron, the kind you tap with the palm of your hand to ring.
Fair enough. I’d rather be doing something useful with my downtime than counting cracks in the ceiling and worrying about Prim. “Alright,” I agree. Peeta smiles and holds the door open, waving me through.
“After you.”
---
Peeta shows me how to whip up a buttercream frosting; Brody shows me how to roll out a baguette; Mr. Mellark shows me how to fold slices of cheese into the center of doughy little buns. The cheese buns are my favorite. Mr. Mellark says we have to try at least one bun out of every batch to make sure they turned out right - I think he’s just being overly kind, but I eat them eagerly anyway.
I also learn some of the little bakery tricks they employ. They’re things I’d never thought about, but that make perfect sense now that I know. Like the cakes in the window - the ones Prim loved to admire on the walk home from school. They’re not real. They’re cardboard.
“We can’t waste a whole cake like that in the window,” Peeta explains, piping dark green frosting around the edge of the fake cake. “Too many eggs.”
“I feel betrayed,” I say, and he laughs.
“Well, don’t tell anyone. We can’t have the customers learning all our secrets.”
I smile. “It would ruin Prim’s day. Actually, probably her whole year.”
An hour later, Peeta brings the model cake out for the window display as I’m ringing up a few loaves of bread for a middle-aged woman from town. “My goodness,” she crows, “That smells delicious, Peeta!”
We lock eyes, and it’s everything I can do not to laugh. “Well, you just let us know and we’ll whip one up for you custom-made, Mrs. Harold,” Peeta says cheerily.
He nudges me on his way back into the kitchen. “Go take a look,” he says, nodding towards the window.
I wait until Mrs. Harold has left, and then walk over to the front display to look at the cake. Right on top, there’s a little squirrel, made of brown frosting piped to look like fur. It’s surrounded by leaves, in alternating shades of green, with dapples of yellow that look like sunlight.
I breathe in deeply, trying to calm the sudden warmth spreading through my chest and my cheeks. There’s no reason to react so strangely, to something so silly.
It’s just…no one’s ever made a cake for me before, real or fake. That’s all.
---
The only real downside to spending more time in the kitchen is the television. It’s always on, always airing the Games.
“How’s Prim doing?” Peeta asks me quietly one afternoon, as we’re standing side by side, wrapping cookies into stacks of three. Astrid’s onscreen, but she’s only sleeping, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. It’s day nine of the Games, and there are ten tributes left.
“Mm. Okay.” We may be “friends” now, but it doesn’t mean I want to talk to Peeta about my sister. She’s been in a holding pattern for days - quiet, tense, glued to the tv set.
“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.” He eyes the stacks of cookies thoughtfully, then slides one towards me. “You should take home some cookies for her tonight.”
I push the cookies back. “You have to stop doing that,” I say, keeping my voice low. Brody is about twenty feet away, washing all of the day’s bowls and utensils, and I don’t want him to hear me over the water rushing from the tap.
“What do you mean?”
“Giving me things,” I hiss. “I can’t pay you back for this.”
“Pay me back?” he repeats. “What are you talking about? It’s just cookies. You work here.”
“It’s not just the cookies,” I insist. He looks at me in question, and I sigh. “It’s the shirt, the job…” I swallow. “The bread.”
Peeta’s hands still, resting on the table. He’s silent. So he does remember that night. “You remember that?” he finally whispers.
Is he crazy? “Of course I do,” I say, my hands trembling slightly as I wrap another stack.
“I thought…” He frowns. “You never said anything.”
He’s right. I didn’t. I meant to, at first, but the time never seemed right - and what would I have said? “I never knew how,” I admit, studying the cookie in my hand.
“Katniss.” He sounds so serious that I have to look at him - his eyes are wide, with an intensity I can’t quite place. “You don’t owe me anything.”
But I do, in a way Peeta will never understand. Because Peeta’s never been desperate. Peeta’s never scraped so close to death he could taste it, sour in the back of his throat. Peeta’s never had to be rescued. He can’t possibly know how terrifying it is, how demeaning it is, and how indescribable it feels for someone to finally pull you out of that dark place.
It feels like getting a gift you don’t deserve, and you spend every day wondering how you can give it back.
“You don’t get it,” I mutter.
“Then explain it to me.” I can feel his eyes on me, but I just shake my head.
“I can’t.” I toss the last stack of cookies down on the table, flinching a little when the one on top cracks in half, and head for the door. “I think I hear someone out front.”
“No you don’t,” he says loudly, stopping me in my tracks. “You…every time I think I’m getting somewhere with you, you run away,” he says, his voice dropping, disappointed.
Getting somewhere? I don’t even want to think about what he means. I shrug helplessly. “Sure. Whatever, Peeta,” I say, stumbling over the words.
Once I’m behind the front counter I slide to the ground, my back against the wall, tears pricking at my eyes. The stress of the last few weeks is making me act crazy. I’m frustrated and worried about Prim, I’m fighting with Gale…I don’t want to be cruel to Peeta, but somehow it seems like it’s the only thing I’m capable of.
The door swings open beside me and I turn away, wiping at my eyes roughly. A body settles onto the ground beside me, large and sturdy and male. “Hey, Katniss.”
It’s Brody. In the moment I’d forgotten he was standing there the whole time, and now I’m embarrassed. I keep my head turned away, in case my face gives away that I’ve almost been crying. “Hey.”
“Is everything okay?” His gentle tone takes me by surprise; until now, everything I’ve heard out of Brody’s mouth has been sardonic and teasing.
“Yeah,” I breathe out slowly. “I’m fine.”
“That’s good.” He doesn’t press me, and I’m grateful. He sighs. “Look…Peeta’s going to hate me for saying this, but I feel like I have to.” I glance over at him, and he’s staring down at his hands, hanging in his lap. “My brother…he’s sensitive. I don’t like seeing him get hurt. I know you’re not doing it on purpose, but…if you don’t like him, just say it.”
I frown, unsure what he means. “I do like Peeta,” I say softly. “He’s nice.”
“Yeah, but not the way he likes you. Right?” Brody raises his eyebrow at my blank look. “Katniss. Come on.”
“What?”
“You have to know,” Brody insists. I shake my head, confused. “Seriously?”
I say nothing, and he laughs in disbelief. “Oh, he’s going to kill me.” Brody runs a hand down his face and sighs again. “Katniss, he likes you.”
Thank you so much for the reviews! :) I hope you enjoy this one.
"It means I'm done. It means I'm free. It means I'll live."
katniss/peeta, katniss/gale, au, r. katniss makes it through her final reaping. part 7 of ?
On Monday morning, Mr. Mellark stops me on my way through the kitchen. “Katniss, hold up a second.”
I freeze, my heart dropping into my stomach as I watch him hustle off into the little office in the back, next to the bathroom. He’s upset at how I’ve treated Peeta. He’s going to reprimand me. He’s going to fire me.
“It’s payday!” he announces cheerfully, eyes on the little stack of cash he’s thumbing through as he walks towards me. He stops short and frowns when he sees my face. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” I say quickly, gratefully accepting the money. “Thank you.”
“Well, you’ve earned it.” He nods, but pauses just as he’s turning away. “I’m sorry it can’t be more,” he says quietly. “It’s lean times for everyone, I suppose.”
I smile weakly. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the Mellarks aren’t quite as well off as I’d once imagined. They’re doing better than my family, obviously - they can afford to buy my squirrels, after all - but Peeta and Brody never seem to eat anything but hard, dry leftovers from the bakery at lunchtime.
His smile is sad in return, and as I watch him amble away, I notice Peeta looking at me from the other end of the room. I meet his eyes and he turns away quickly.
I decide: I’m going to do it today. I’m going to swallow my pride and apologize.
---
All morning I peek through the little window on the swinging door to see if it’s the right moment to approach Peeta. I don’t want his brother or dad to overhear me, and I don’t want them to see me pulling him aside - I already know what kind of smug little smile I’d get from Brody for that.
Peeta’s finally left alone a little before lunchtime, when Brody leaves to make some deliveries. His back is to me as he kneads a ball of dough on one of the long metal tables. With a last glance at the front door - no customers - I slip into the kitchen.
He doesn’t even notice me until I’m at his side. Peeta wouldn’t have lasted long in the Games, that’s for sure. “Hey,” he says, jerking back a little in surprise. “Wow, you’re quiet.”
I smile a little. “Years of practice in the woods.”
He nods, turning back to his dough. It’s sticky and spongy, clinging to his fingers. “What’s up?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
Peeta flips the ball of dough over and begins working the other side with his hands. His nails are cut very short, I notice, probably so he doesn’t get batter and dough caught up underneath them when he’s working. There are little white scars all over his hands, too - burns from the ovens, I think. “What for?”
“Last week.” I swallow, shifting uncomfortably. “You were just trying to be nice, and…I shouldn’t hold that against you. And…I think we could be friends, if you still want. I don’t have many friends,” I finish quietly.
Peeta’s eyes don’t leave the table, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitching, like he’s suppressing a smile. “Okay,” he says evenly. “We can be friends.”
“Okay,” I agree, feeling oddly shy, now that we’ve said it out loud. “Good.” I back away, leaving him to his bread.
But he doesn’t let me leave - he reaches out and grabs my hand. “Well, wait,” he says, dropping it quickly. “You’re going to say we’re friends, and then not even hang out with me?”
He’s teasing me, I think. “I have to work,” I say uncertainly. “There’s no one out front.”
Peeta cranes his neck around. Maybe he’s tall enough to see through the little window on the door from here - I’m certainly not. “I’ll keep an eye on it,” he says, smiling down at me. “Do you want to help me make some bread?”
Peeta splits the dough into two sections and shows me how to knead the dough properly, digging his knuckles in deep. It’s kind of fun, surprisingly. And he stays true to his word, brushing my arm gently with his elbow when a customer enters the bakery twenty minutes later.
I rush towards the door, skidding to a stop right before I swing through it. “Thanks,” I say.
“Anytime,” he replies.
---
Things are back to normal the next morning, and it’s a relief. All three of the Mellarks greet me when I arrive in the morning, and Peeta shows up out front before the first hour has even passed.
“So I asked my dad, and he said if you want to, you can do some more work in the kitchens instead of standing out here all day.” He’s got a nervous energy this morning, shifting on the balls of his feet next to me.
“Really?” I ask, skeptical. “What if a customer comes in?”
“They can get our attention with this.” Peeta produces a little silver bell from the pocket in his apron, the kind you tap with the palm of your hand to ring.
Fair enough. I’d rather be doing something useful with my downtime than counting cracks in the ceiling and worrying about Prim. “Alright,” I agree. Peeta smiles and holds the door open, waving me through.
“After you.”
---
Peeta shows me how to whip up a buttercream frosting; Brody shows me how to roll out a baguette; Mr. Mellark shows me how to fold slices of cheese into the center of doughy little buns. The cheese buns are my favorite. Mr. Mellark says we have to try at least one bun out of every batch to make sure they turned out right - I think he’s just being overly kind, but I eat them eagerly anyway.
I also learn some of the little bakery tricks they employ. They’re things I’d never thought about, but that make perfect sense now that I know. Like the cakes in the window - the ones Prim loved to admire on the walk home from school. They’re not real. They’re cardboard.
“We can’t waste a whole cake like that in the window,” Peeta explains, piping dark green frosting around the edge of the fake cake. “Too many eggs.”
“I feel betrayed,” I say, and he laughs.
“Well, don’t tell anyone. We can’t have the customers learning all our secrets.”
I smile. “It would ruin Prim’s day. Actually, probably her whole year.”
An hour later, Peeta brings the model cake out for the window display as I’m ringing up a few loaves of bread for a middle-aged woman from town. “My goodness,” she crows, “That smells delicious, Peeta!”
We lock eyes, and it’s everything I can do not to laugh. “Well, you just let us know and we’ll whip one up for you custom-made, Mrs. Harold,” Peeta says cheerily.
He nudges me on his way back into the kitchen. “Go take a look,” he says, nodding towards the window.
I wait until Mrs. Harold has left, and then walk over to the front display to look at the cake. Right on top, there’s a little squirrel, made of brown frosting piped to look like fur. It’s surrounded by leaves, in alternating shades of green, with dapples of yellow that look like sunlight.
I breathe in deeply, trying to calm the sudden warmth spreading through my chest and my cheeks. There’s no reason to react so strangely, to something so silly.
It’s just…no one’s ever made a cake for me before, real or fake. That’s all.
---
The only real downside to spending more time in the kitchen is the television. It’s always on, always airing the Games.
“How’s Prim doing?” Peeta asks me quietly one afternoon, as we’re standing side by side, wrapping cookies into stacks of three. Astrid’s onscreen, but she’s only sleeping, even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. It’s day nine of the Games, and there are ten tributes left.
“Mm. Okay.” We may be “friends” now, but it doesn’t mean I want to talk to Peeta about my sister. She’s been in a holding pattern for days - quiet, tense, glued to the tv set.
“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.” He eyes the stacks of cookies thoughtfully, then slides one towards me. “You should take home some cookies for her tonight.”
I push the cookies back. “You have to stop doing that,” I say, keeping my voice low. Brody is about twenty feet away, washing all of the day’s bowls and utensils, and I don’t want him to hear me over the water rushing from the tap.
“What do you mean?”
“Giving me things,” I hiss. “I can’t pay you back for this.”
“Pay me back?” he repeats. “What are you talking about? It’s just cookies. You work here.”
“It’s not just the cookies,” I insist. He looks at me in question, and I sigh. “It’s the shirt, the job…” I swallow. “The bread.”
Peeta’s hands still, resting on the table. He’s silent. So he does remember that night. “You remember that?” he finally whispers.
Is he crazy? “Of course I do,” I say, my hands trembling slightly as I wrap another stack.
“I thought…” He frowns. “You never said anything.”
He’s right. I didn’t. I meant to, at first, but the time never seemed right - and what would I have said? “I never knew how,” I admit, studying the cookie in my hand.
“Katniss.” He sounds so serious that I have to look at him - his eyes are wide, with an intensity I can’t quite place. “You don’t owe me anything.”
But I do, in a way Peeta will never understand. Because Peeta’s never been desperate. Peeta’s never scraped so close to death he could taste it, sour in the back of his throat. Peeta’s never had to be rescued. He can’t possibly know how terrifying it is, how demeaning it is, and how indescribable it feels for someone to finally pull you out of that dark place.
It feels like getting a gift you don’t deserve, and you spend every day wondering how you can give it back.
“You don’t get it,” I mutter.
“Then explain it to me.” I can feel his eyes on me, but I just shake my head.
“I can’t.” I toss the last stack of cookies down on the table, flinching a little when the one on top cracks in half, and head for the door. “I think I hear someone out front.”
“No you don’t,” he says loudly, stopping me in my tracks. “You…every time I think I’m getting somewhere with you, you run away,” he says, his voice dropping, disappointed.
Getting somewhere? I don’t even want to think about what he means. I shrug helplessly. “Sure. Whatever, Peeta,” I say, stumbling over the words.
Once I’m behind the front counter I slide to the ground, my back against the wall, tears pricking at my eyes. The stress of the last few weeks is making me act crazy. I’m frustrated and worried about Prim, I’m fighting with Gale…I don’t want to be cruel to Peeta, but somehow it seems like it’s the only thing I’m capable of.
The door swings open beside me and I turn away, wiping at my eyes roughly. A body settles onto the ground beside me, large and sturdy and male. “Hey, Katniss.”
It’s Brody. In the moment I’d forgotten he was standing there the whole time, and now I’m embarrassed. I keep my head turned away, in case my face gives away that I’ve almost been crying. “Hey.”
“Is everything okay?” His gentle tone takes me by surprise; until now, everything I’ve heard out of Brody’s mouth has been sardonic and teasing.
“Yeah,” I breathe out slowly. “I’m fine.”
“That’s good.” He doesn’t press me, and I’m grateful. He sighs. “Look…Peeta’s going to hate me for saying this, but I feel like I have to.” I glance over at him, and he’s staring down at his hands, hanging in his lap. “My brother…he’s sensitive. I don’t like seeing him get hurt. I know you’re not doing it on purpose, but…if you don’t like him, just say it.”
I frown, unsure what he means. “I do like Peeta,” I say softly. “He’s nice.”
“Yeah, but not the way he likes you. Right?” Brody raises his eyebrow at my blank look. “Katniss. Come on.”
“What?”
“You have to know,” Brody insists. I shake my head, confused. “Seriously?”
I say nothing, and he laughs in disbelief. “Oh, he’s going to kill me.” Brody runs a hand down his face and sighs again. “Katniss, he likes you.”
Thank you so much for the reviews! :) I hope you enjoy this one.