It's been years since Katniss has ventured into the Seam. She isn't sure, but she thinks that the home she grew up in has already been assigned to another family. And the address that Ripper sent her to is down another street – something she's grateful for, since she's not sure she could exactly handle seeing her old house.
The little shack that she finds – checking it against the scrawled out instructions from the woman in the Hob – looks unassuming. And though she wouldn't admit it, she's not sure if the man is going to be able to fix her oven. He's so far away from Town that she isn't sure he's ever been around the technology. Peeta has, and though it took him no time at all to realize why the second oven wouldn't heat up, he doesn't know how to fix this sort of thing.
His suggestion was to see if they could look around and find it in Town. He felt bad for mentioning it, she could tell that just based on the quick, "But you don't have to! I could absolutely make it work, just with the one," he added. Then he mentioned that, though the ovens in the bakery weren't quite as fancy, they could order parts from the Capitol. He wondered if maybe they could find someone who would be able to place the order. But then, again, he seemed to feel awful about asking for something.
And it's not that it's a bad idea, trying to get the part from Town or The Capitol. It's just that Katniss doesn't want much of anything from them. So she went to the Hob, the defective part safely in her Game bag. Of course, Sae had just raised her eyebrows, as if it was obvious that none of them knew how her oven worked. But Ripper had an idea of someone who would probably be able to get it back in shape, and sent Katniss on her way without accepting any thanks.
Katniss hesitates, and then knocks on the door, deciding that it's best to give it a shot. The man who opens the door doesn't ask why she's there or who she is. He knows the answer to the second question. Everyone does. And he either doesn't care about the first, or knows that it will come up eventually. Instead of any questions, he just leans somewhat heavily, for a man with such a wiry frame, against a walking stick and looks her over for a second. And it makes her uncomfortable, the way he's studying her. Not because it reminds her of the Capitol, exactly, but because it doesn't. He has the air of a man who knew her before, but she doesn't recognize him in the slightest.
He nods, as if he's made his mind up about something, turns, and heads into the house. She watches, a little surprised, until he waves vaguely. "Come in," he says, sidestepping a mess that lies in the middle of the floor and sitting back down in front of a desk. His voice is rough. Almost strangled, like he's on the verge of a coughing fit.
"Close the door behind you," he says, and she does, but doesn't move very far into the house. Partially because she wants to be able to escape if this takes a strange turn, but also because the whole floor is littered with what she now sees are projects and not messes. And he's already – or still, maybe – at work at something on his desk. So small that she can't see it from her spot across the room. "What do you need me to do?" he asks.
"My oven is broken," she says, deciding as she glances around the state of his home that she shouldn't admit to having two ovens. Frankly, if Peeta wasn't almost constantly using both of them, she would leave it broken. Hell, she's gone without either of the ovens for months. But Peeta seemed almost panicked, either at the thought of her oven being broken or the idea that maybe he did it.
"Ripper said you might be able to help," she continues.
"Oh, old Ripper sent you?" he asks. It's a joke, she thinks, him calling Ripper old. He has at least ten years on the woman from the Hob. But if they know each other . . . she wonders if he frequents the Hob and she's missed him. He must have been a miner. She'd be willing to bet that's where he got the cough, and probably the leg injury that keeps the crutch close by. "Well, don't stay by the door all day," he says.
Carefully, she steps around a piece of metal, twisted up in a way that might just be for decoration, and a little closer to his desk. It's silent after that, him working and her waiting for him to ask what she wants. Does he not care?
"Go on," he says, not even turning to look at her.
"I'm sorry?"
"Why did Ripper send you? What's wrong with your oven?"
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "Well, my baker says it's just the one part. That we might be able to replace it in Town – or send away for it. But I'd rather find something else out."
"Oh, that's right. Your baker," he says, holding his hand out. "I take it you brought the part."
"Yes. What about my baker?"
"Nothing, nothing," he says as she takes the part from her bag and hands it over. She knows that it is something, just by the heaviness with which he speaks. "Is he the one who realized it was broken?"
She nods. "He tried fixing it, too, but he couldn't figure it out. He wasn't the one who fixed the ovens in the bakery."
The man hums thoughtfully. "So it wouldn't . . . what? Turn on?"
"I don't think so," she says. "It wouldn't warm up. Can you fix it?"
His head turns slowly, for the first time, to look at her. He doesn't look irritated, exactly, more amused than anything. It sets her teeth on edge, how close he looks to laughing at her. "Give me a moment," he demands. "I don't know what I'm looking at just yet."
She does. It's quiet, and she keeps looking at the metal just by her right foot. She could step over it easily. Hover by the man's shoulder. But she doesn't move an inch closer. His home is chaotic, but it's the sort of mess that must be systematic. To stand any closer to his workspace – though his entire house seems like a workspace, really – would mean disrupting the projects closest to where he sits.
The walls are covered in paper, clearly ripped from books of some sort, and written or drawn on in thick, heavy lines. And not only his desk but his floor is covered in projects of every sort, all in varying states of completion.
"I suppose they have been talking about that, haven't they?" he asks after a long moment. "You taking the Mellark boy in." She wonders who theywould be and why they would care.
"What do you mean?" she asks, suddenly very uncomfortable. She had thought – foolishly, of course – that there was some modicum of privacy, being so far away from everyone. Did she sacrifice that for the both of them by trying to get a rise out of Madge and Mr. Mellark? All she said was that she had a baker working for her.
"Nothing," he says again. "So, is this how this is supposedto look? Or is it bent out of shape?"
It's hard to keep up with this man, he changes the subject so quickly. "I don't know," she says. "Do I need to bring Peeta?"
He hesitates, and then shakes his head. "No. I think I might be able to figure this out. You'll give me a week," he decides.
"Um, all right," she says.
"Your troublemaker can go without the oven for that long?"
"Troublemaker?" she echoes, not sure if it bothers her more for Peeta to be called a name or for him to be called hers. Neither of them are accurate. "What do you mean, my troublemaker?"
"You say that like he hasn't caused you any grief," the man says. There's actually a look of amusement on his face. She's not sure what it is, exactly, he's trying to tell her. But she thinks she might not get it if she comes right out and asks it.
"He hasn't," she says. "Not even a little bit." What are you getting at, old man?
He hums thoughtfully, his tongue darting out between his lips for a split second as he holds the part up to the light. "Everyone's been wondering."
"Who is everyone, exactly?" she asks.
He gives her a disbelieving look. "Everyone. That's who."
Her mouth opens and closes as she tries to make sense of this. "Why do they care?"
"Why? Everyone seems to think they have a stake in this," he says. "The Seam Victor and the Merchant Thief."
"Thief?" she echoes. "What do you mean, thief?"
His smile could only be described as a smirk, and it could just be a twitch, but she swears the old man winksat her.
The next few days pass without incident. She even forgets to be suspicious of Peeta until one afternoon, when he's hard at work in the kitchen. She isn't sure what he's making, but his meals have been getting more and more inventive since her trip to the woods. Maybe it's because he doesn't want to get bored of eating squirrel, but she thinks that maybe it's because he wants to impress her. Every now and then, she'll hear water running or the oven beeping or something clattering, but she doesn't bother going into the kitchen to see what he's doing. Peeta has it under control – she's beginning to suspect that Peeta has everything under control. She'd be lying if she said that didn't make her jealous.
She's in the living room, with Peeta's jacket on her lap and a sewing kit that she found hidden in the closet on the couch beside her. It seems like such a small task, patching up his coat, but she's been putting it off ever since she brought him here.
This is something her mother used to do. If she would tear a piece of clothing or her father would bring something home from the Hob that was missing a button, her mother would just shake her head and get to work. Katniss isn't good at this sort of thing. Her hands aren't used to holding a needle, and her fingers shake when she tries to thread it. Her mother would have had it done already. Even Prim would have been able to figure it out quicker than Katniss has. Prim would . . .
The needle slips, and she ends up poking her finger. She hisses, grateful that Peeta is busy enough not to come check on her, and gets back to work. She's going to finish his jacket. It would be easier to buy him a new one, but he has so few things of his own that it seems right to let him have the option to wear this, if he chooses. Her stitches are loopy and uneven, but they do the job. While she works, she thinks of the cut on his back, wondering if that's all right. She kicks herself for failing to check on it earlier.
She's not entirely sure why it seems best to bring it upstairs. Maybe because she doesn't want him tripping over himself to thank her for this, or because he's so busy. Or maybe she just wants to surprise him. He'll be pleased to see it all patched up, she thinks.
She's never been in his room before – not even when she showed him where he could stay. She just motioned in through the open door. Peeta has been with her for the better part of a month, now, but the room looks just as empty as it did when he first came. She's not entirely sure what to make of that. The bed is carefully made, any wrinkle left in the pillows from him sleeping on it smoothed out. Her bed has never been made half so neatly – it's hard enough to get out of it in the mornings, if she spent any time making it, it would be easy to fall back into it and never leave.
She takes in the room, trying to figure out where she should leave his coat. She was thinking of putting it on the bed, but he's obviously put too much effort into keeping it neat. She makes for the dresser, instead. It's relatively free of clutter – of course it is. Peeta doesn't have things. Not enough to make a mess with. But there is one corner that's been used.
Oh. Peeta.She sucks in a deep breath, trying to make sense of what she's seeing. Peeta has made what could only really be described as a stockpile on the dresser. She recognizes every bit of food he's saved, too. Not only from her kitchen, but from when she's insisted that he take something and not been there to see him eat it. Two apples, completely untouched. A cheese bun and half of a sandwich that can't possibly still be any good.
Her brow furrows. Why wouldn't he keep these things downstairs? Or in the icebox? The sandwich might still be good if he had put it away, but . . . could he be keeping them from her? Why would he want to–?
The words merchant thiefswim into her head, and suddenly, she's so angry that she can't breathe. Not at Peeta – neverat Peeta – but at the idea of this boy having to steal in order to eat. He lived above a bakery, and he still wasn't being fed. Was Peeta hungry long before she found him in the woods? She remembers him being stocky, once, but he's lost plenty of weight since then. Her muscles protest from being tensed for so long, and then suddenly, before she's decided what it is she wants to do about this, she's thundering down the stairs.
"Peeta!" she calls.
"Yes?" he asks, coming out of the kitchen and drying his hands on his shirt. "What's . . .?" he trails off when she shoves the coat towards him. "You patched it? Thank you! That's great. I didn't –"
"Get your shoes on," she interrupts. "We're going out."
"Um, okay," he says. "Right now?"
She gives him a curt nod, already heading for the door. He follows, pulling his boots on for the first time since she brought him here. She waits, though she's feeling impatient, and this is exactly the sort of thing that would usually send her flying for the fence by herself. Once he's finished, she leads him out the door and around the back of the house.
"I, ah," he begins and then clears his throat. "Where are we going?"
"Hunting," she answers.
"What?" he asks. "I'm not really – I'm probably a lot more useful in your kitchen, Katniss."
She shakes her head. "I want you to come."
That does it. Save for his loud footsteps, he follows silently while she strides towards the fence.
"I, um," he clears his throat. "Is there something you need my help with? Or . . .?"
"I'm teaching you to gather," she announces.
She's never brought anyone to the woods before. It's probably pointless to try and teach Peeta to shoot. Even if she was willing to part with her father's bow, even momentarily, she's not sure how well he would do with a weapon. Her district partner was lethal enough, and while she taught him to shoot during training in exchange for some lessons at the snare table, she wasn't a good enough teacher. His arrow just barely hit the wood that the bullseye was painted on, and one of the career tributes actually laughed at him. He silenced him with a glare, but the damage was done, really.
And Gale . . . Gale was tall, lean and intimidating. The sort of person who looked at home with a weapon in his hand. It didn't matter that he didn't have the same sort of control over the arrow as he did with his snares. He had a sort of anger that Katniss just couldn't compete with, even when there was still a reason to fight. He was angry at the people of Twelve, who refused to clap when the escort called for it.
"They don't get to pretend that we're something precious now," he had snarled on the train."They gave us up. Sent us off to die."
"It's an honor," Effie had said, raising her chin. "They chose you for a reason. I can't imagine why they didn't give up their applause, but things area bit backwards in Twelve."
"It's not an honor," Gale argued, pointing at the escort with his fork. "It's a death sentence."
Effie gave a little harrumphand looked over at Katniss. "He won't make many friends with that attitude," she had said.
But Gale wasn't there to make friends. In all the time that the two of them spent together before the Games, Katniss didn't learn a thing about him. In fact, she didn't even know that he had brothers until she returned to Twelve and saw his family all standing on the podium, waiting for the pine box that Gale's body returned in to be unloaded so that they could give him a proper funeral.
She always wonders what that must have looked like – what was left of the Hawthorne family all huddled around the coffin, tearful and mourning, while the rest of the district cheered in the distance, celebrating Katniss' homecoming.
"Oh man, this fence and I have sort of a rough history," Peeta jokes, distracting her.
"What?" she asks.
"I was being stupid," he says. "I scratched up my back pretty bad, last time." He rubs at the back of his neck, giving her a little laugh. "Which you know, since you sewed up my coat. Thank you again for doing that."
"You'll be okay. I'll go first and hold it up."
He doesn't have a response at first. "You don't have to do that," he says.
Yes, I do¸she thinks. Peeta doesn't respond, but it's almost like he knows. She's glad that he doesn't ask, because there's no explanation for whyshe wants so badly to teach him to hunt. Not one that doesn't include the fact that she knows his secret. Knows that he's trying to ration out food when he doesn't have to. She wants to figure it out, though. Wants to know if it's just that he doesn't trust her, or if –
She gives him a little nod and slips under the fence, helping to lift the weak part so that he can crawl underneath it. Thankfully, he doesn't get hurt this time. She wipes the dirt from her knees and sets him to work. Even though it's obvious that he doesn't understand what's happening, he follows orders carefully, picking berries and listening intently while she identifies plants for him.
"So, this is the nightlock," Peeta says. It wasn't a question, but he still glances over his shoulder for confirmation. "I take it I should just leave it alone this time, right?"
"Yes," she says, coming over to where he's crouched. "You're right. How did you remember that?"
"I don't know," he says. "Guess it's just not the kind of thing you forget."
She nods.
"Well, leave it alone. What do you think of getting some bark off the trees for me?"
"Whatever you need me to do, I'll do," he assures her. "Just point me in the right direction and – and I'll be happy to do it."
It's true, he's willing to do whatever she asks. Peeta is a natural. While he was once a lot stockier than he is, now, and could easily be as intimidating as Gale was, there's something different about him. Of course he gathers things rather than killing them. It's so obvious, now. She should have been able to tell that just by looking in his eyes. Peeta Mellark is nothing like her. Not a killer – not a monster of any sort, actually. The man who called him a thiefdidn't know. She tries not to hate the machinist. She wouldn't have expected that a merchant was capable of being so hungry, either.
Neither would Gale. She remembers cracking a joke about the baggy coal miner outfits their stylists put them, asking what would happen if the shoemaker had been elected. Gale hadn't laughed, exactly. Just huffed a little and said, "They'd never be sent a merchant. Not this year."
He had been right, obviously. Her father had said something similar, the night before the reaping. It was a fight between her parents that she wasn't supposed to hear, about how no one was going to turn over the next generation of bakers and tailors when there were so many disposable coal miners.
She thought she hated the merchants. Peeta was the only exception, and that was leftover from years before he made it through the quell unscathed, but she's beginning to think he's an exception in more ways than one.
"Not that I don't appreciate you bringing me out here . . ." Peeta begins nervously, not quite meeting her eyes. "But, are we looking for anything in particular?"
"Yes," she lies. "I'll know when I see it."
He nods. "All right."
She's not sure what she's trying to do. She thinks she's frightened him, dragging him out here like this. But she had to do something. Had to make sure that he would be okay even if he did leave her. Wanted to make sure that he knew it, too.
Because what's the alternative? Telling him that she saw the food that he saved? Asking him what it means? No. She can't do that. Won't embarrass him like that. She refuses to.
"I want soup tonight," she says.
"Okay. What kind?" he asks.
"I can show you," she says. "It's . . . it's an Everdeen – it's . . ." she's mortified by how she stumbles on her name. It's quiet for a long moment, and thankfully, he doesn't press her. "It's a tradition," she says. "After a hunt. I'll teach you."
He's stunned into silence for a moment, and then he starts to nod eagerly. "Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. I'd like that a lot."
"You didn't have anything planned?"
"Just dessert," he assures her. "But even if I had – I could always put it away until tomorrow. I want to make what you want to eat."
"My baker is not a thief," she says when the machinist lets her in the next day.
If anything, the man looks amused. "Well, I could have told you that," he says.
"You saidhe's a thief," she protests. "I don't like you spreading stories about him."
"I said that they think he's a thief," the man says. "You really haven't heard, have you?"
"I don't care what they're saying," she says, raising her chin.
He gives her a hum, as if he's considering this. "Ah, it's none of my business."
"You're right."
"I will say this, though," he continues, turning to find the piece in the mess on his floor and handing it over before he finishes his thought. "That boy has been kicked out of enough homes. The people in town aren't the only ones wondering how long this is going to last."
Author's Note:
I'm on Tumblr as feministPeeta if you want to hang out.