[Lazy Sundays are her favorite kind of days. As much as she enjoys the hours put in to hunting during the week, there's something to be said about being able to sleep in late. Safe in a warm bed, tucked into her husband's embrace.
Even as the sun's rays shine through gaps in the curtains, she pretends she's still asleep. Why would she want to do anything else right now? There really is no where else in the entire world she'd rather be than their bed.]
[Still asleep, Peeta shifts slightly, the corner of his mouth pressing lightly against her hair. Then, he settles, going still.
It's breathing with her fragrant hair in his face that makes him inhale audibly, eyes fluttering and opening. Waking up like this is the most comfortable experience in the world, and even more comfortable when he can roll over a bit and snuggle harder, drawing her closer, before dozing gently, waiting for the rest of his brain to wake up.]
[The smile that forms on her face is almost immediate when he presses a kiss to the top of her head. He's waking, she knows. Waking and yet not up and running like she tends to be. It's hard to pretend that she's not fully awake. but when he presses her body closer to his, she doesn't want to do anything else.
Because in his arms, she knows the peace she's been denied since her parents died. She sighs, happy and content. But the restlessness can only be held at bay for so long. Arching her head, she presses her lips against his chest. Then another one, further up.
[Yes, there are worse ways, and she is not above them. This way gets a massive, sleepy, happy grin, eyes still closed. He'll make her breakfast this morning, he decides without thinking too much about it. He doesn't want to think of any moment but the current one. There's no such thing as the future, right?
By the time her kisses reach his mouth to wipe the smile off his lips, he's ready, inhaling softly, one hand reaching up to cup her jaw delicately.]
[There's no mistaking that smile on his face. He might not want to open his eyes, but he's awake. She knows it. And while they should probably get out of bed, should check on Rue and prepare breakfast, she can't bring herself to care about any of that. The future can wait.
Because by now, his hand is on her face and her eyes have closed in bliss. She bends her head down to kiss him gently, hands curling against his chest, lips teasing his playfully -- all as the hunger in her starts to awaken.
Reluctantly, she pulls away just enough to whisper.] Good morning.
[There's laughter as she does indeed steal another kiss. How could she ever say no to him? At least in a situation like this. The concept is almost foreign.]
[They explode all above her. The bombs. The explosions sent by the Capitol, sent by Snow, to ferret out a Mockingjay. Death traps. Killers. Fire that burns brightly on the surface. That somehow penetrates the safety of the shelter. That turns anyone in their proximity into a fire mutt. They wail and scream in the background. She can barely hear them.
She’s back in District Thirteen. Deep, deep underground. Everyone’s here. All of Thirteen. All of the refugees. But someone’s missing. Someone important. Her sister. There’s no mercy as she pushes her way through the throng of people. Screaming and shoving. Not caring who she might harm. Who she might kill to get to the door. There’s nothing else important. Nothing nearly as important as making sure the girl is safe. The blast doors begin to close as she reaches them. But there she is. The blonde haired sister, running down narrow steps. Her braid bounces. A medical kit is clutched in one hand. And from her vantage point, she can barely see the tail of the medic’s uniform flapping behind her. Her little duck. Almost there. Almost safe.
And then a parachute drops. Falls in front of her sister. The silver, gleaming parachute that was supposed to represent hope within an arena. That represents death now. Because she knows. She knows it’s one of the death traps. One of the explosions that make the halls echo. It’s somehow breached defenses. Made it to the steps.
She tries to mouth a warning. But it’s too late. The world goes black, then red. The sound is deafening.
In the bed, she turns on her side and clutches at the pillow. Still asleep. Still trapped in the nightmare. But now, the tears have begun to fall from her face.
Coin berates her. She’s here. Alive and strong. The new president of Panem. The woman’s features, though, are not exactly how she remembers them. They’re too sharp. Too angry. Maybe she succeeded in killing the real Coin. Maybe the woman was replaced by a mutt. She must be a mutt. Because how could she have survived that arrow? That fall? Whoever she is, she’s in charge now. And she’s the woman’s captive, forced to listen to everything she has to say.
To listen to the list of names. All the names of all the dead. Dead she’s killed. Dead who have died for her. For the Mockingjay. The face of the rebellion. The face of death.
She tries to curl into a ball. Brings her legs in tight against her chest and cover her ears with her hands. Squeeze eyes shut and bury her face against her knees. Make her body as small as possible. Invisible. Non-existent. Incapable of hearing the names. Names that seem to never stop. Only keep going, again and again and again.
Wings, mockingjay wings, wrap around her. Cocoon her. Threaten to suffocate and yet keep her safe. But they don’t work. Don’t kill her and don’t silence Coin. Don’t stop the names from flowing. Names she knows and names she doesn’t. But they’re all the same. All dead because of her.
The names wash over her. Crash like the tidal wave in the clock arena. Drowning. Drowning. She’s drowning in names. In guilt. And in fire. It hurts. So much fire. So much pain. But what other fitting end is there for the girl who was on fire? Who was made memorable by that element?
Fire.
Fire is catching. And if we burn, you burn with us.
She burns. She suffocates and drowns. Gasping for breath, sobbing. But all the while, nothing blocks out the noise. The voice. Coin’s voice. Listing those names. All those names. More are added. New ones. Ones she didn’t think possible. Johanna. Beetee. Her mother. Greasy Sae and the little granddaughter. Cresida. Effie. Haymitch.
Gale.
Peeta.
Names that are utterly impossible to hear. To bear. Names that shouldn’t be said. People who should be alive. Alive! Not dead. Not at all dead.
More tossing and turning in the bed. A low keeling escapes her lips. A tortured moan. Mournful. Lost.]
No, no, no... Peeta!
[At least it’ll all be over soon. Today’s the day of the Mockingjay’s execution. The last day of the rebellion. The day the spark will finally be extinguished for good. It’s only fitting, then, that she wears Cinna’s dress. The red one that had alighted a stage with fire once. It’s looser now. Looser than she remembers. But there’s no mistaking the symbolism in wearing this dress. No mistaking the message Coin intends to send.
She’s even on the stage, though Ceasar Flickerman is nowhere to be found. Dead, a voice whispers in her ear. A snakelike voice, all too reminiscent of the mutts in the sewers. Dead. Dead. Dead. The words are followed by laughter. Too much laughter.
They’re all dead because of her.
And then, everything stills. The auditorium becomes utterly quiet. And a boy steps out . A boy dressed in the pants and shirt of the first arena she had ever been in. The clothing, though, is covered by a baker’s apron. Wings she had forgotten about till now flutter nervously behind her back. Beautiful, horrible Mockingjay wings. Wings that mean she’s not in the Capitol anymore. Not in Panem.
But there’s no mistaking that blonde hair and blue eyes. No mistaking the terrified hatred that turns his face ugly with rage. This will be Snow’s last hurrah. Coin’s. The new Gamemakers messed up. Hijacking the boy had been a mistake. He can’t be hijacked. Because this is the result. This is always, always going to be the result.
He’s her executioner. The boy she was told is dead isn’t. But every step closer, every heartbeat that passes between them, she knows that she will be. Soon. So very soon. Fear and relief war within her. Maybe it’s best this way. Best to be dead. So when hands wrap around her throat and squeeze as they did so long ago in District Thirteen, she knows. Knows what she should have realized all along:
He was never meant to save her.
Eyes open and she bolts upright in bed. And then, she screams.]
[It takes a second. He's not a superhero or a miracle-worker. But Peeta does burst in, solid and calm by her side. One knee on the edge of her bed, one hand reaching for her.]
[She's trembling by the time he reaches her. No longer screaming, but shaking. Curled up like in the dream. Rocking herself back and forth. That she might've even woken anyone doesn't even permeate her thoughts. It's not the first time she's awoken with a scream. But it's never this loud. She's never this terrified.
And while Peeta's presence normally brings her ease, on the heals of this nightmare, she recoils. New tears well up in grey eyes. Tears of fear. Tears of sorrow. Is she back in the dream? Is he going to kill her now? Place hands back around her neck and finally crush her larynx?]
Peeta. [His name comes out a strangled sob. Is this it?] Peeta.
[She's terrified. This isn't like the other times. He freezes, one hand reaching out, watching in grave worry. If he touches her, will it only make things worse?]
I'm here. You can reach out and touch me. Hold out your hand. I'm here, okay?
[Why aren't there hands around her neck? Why isn't he trying to kill her? She doesn't understand. And for a few minutes, she can only sit there and stare. Fight through the fog of the dream. Remind herself that he hasn't been hijacked by the Capitol. Not here. Not yet.
[For a second, he really doesn't think he heard her right. Really. Then, his eyes go wide as he realizes, going over the sounds she made in his mind, that she couldn't possibly think anything else.]
[Even in the dark, the damage is obvious. Something had happened while she had been gone, while she had been forced to fight. The guilt sinks deep into her stomach. Her heart aches. She should have been here. Here, protecting Peeta and Rue and even stupid old Buttercup.
And she wasn't.
Tears sting her eyes as she starts to run. Are they okay? Are they here, in the town? Or did Peeta take them to the treehouse? All the fears, all the worries rush through her mind. She takes no care of those around her. Of the other damage.]
Peeta! [She shouts loudly as she pushes the door open to their house.] Peeta! Rue!
[It's too dark with her tear filled eyes. Hard to see even a few feet in front of her. And when she slams the door behind her, the little light she had been utilizing is gone. Memory guides her to the light switch even as she calls again:]
Peeta? Rue?
[Because there's been no response. And when the light flickers on to see a still Peeta on the couch. He hadn't responded to her. Why hadn't he responded? Her stomach flops. It feels as if her heart has sunk to her gut, something almost as bad as a physical hurt. She stops a few feet from him. Her pack and bow drop to the ground.
[He looks up at her. He hasn't done much all morning, not since going in to wake up Rue. Not since finding absolutely nothing there, not even the music box he'd given her, the one she'd taken so much joy in.]
Rue's gone.
[It's spoken quietly, hoarsely, although his face is still.]
[Rue's gone. The two words echo in her head. Ring loudly, too loudly. From the way he says it, she's not dead. Not injured in whatever disaster had ripped through town while she had been gone. Not taken by the Malnosso.
Gone. Gone for good. And never coming back. Little Rue, who had deserved this second chance more than any of them. The girl she had failed once again.
It's hard to find her voice. When she does manage it, manages to open her mouth to get words out, they're still barely a whisper.] How long?
[How can he end that sentence? It's redundant. It's too painful for both of them, but especially for Katniss. Does this mean he failed her? She sees the young girl as a sort of substitute Prim, and Prim is also dead and gone. What now?]
If she loved him, she'd keep walking. It had been so very, very easy to live up to that promise. Careful to keep the plate balanced in her hands, not to drop any of the precious slices of cake, she walked quietly alongside him from Battle Dome to their house. Determined, quick steps all the way to the front door, too eager to get home to bother with conversation.
Glancing at Peeta and the tray, she purses her lips together in quick thought. "I'll get the door. Is the key still in your pocket?"
She looks from the trays in his hands back up to his eyes and nods. It's easy enough for her to shift her own plate to one hand. "Your hands are kind of full."
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victorbychance) wrote2020-05-09 06:38 pm
June 3rd - Luceti Valley AU for Total Recall Event - action
Even as the sun's rays shine through gaps in the curtains, she pretends she's still asleep. Why would she want to do anything else right now? There really is no where else in the entire world she'd rather be than their bed.]
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It's breathing with her fragrant hair in his face that makes him inhale audibly, eyes fluttering and opening. Waking up like this is the most comfortable experience in the world, and even more comfortable when he can roll over a bit and snuggle harder, drawing her closer, before dozing gently, waiting for the rest of his brain to wake up.]
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Because in his arms, she knows the peace she's been denied since her parents died. She sighs, happy and content. But the restlessness can only be held at bay for so long. Arching her head, she presses her lips against his chest. Then another one, further up.
There are worse ways of waking him.]
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By the time her kisses reach his mouth to wipe the smile off his lips, he's ready, inhaling softly, one hand reaching up to cup her jaw delicately.]
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Because by now, his hand is on her face and her eyes have closed in bliss. She bends her head down to kiss him gently, hands curling against his chest, lips teasing his playfully -- all as the hunger in her starts to awaken.
Reluctantly, she pulls away just enough to whisper.] Good morning.
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Morning of June 6th, Action.
She’s back in District Thirteen. Deep, deep underground. Everyone’s here. All of Thirteen. All of the refugees. But someone’s missing. Someone important. Her sister. There’s no mercy as she pushes her way through the throng of people. Screaming and shoving. Not caring who she might harm. Who she might kill to get to the door. There’s nothing else important. Nothing nearly as important as making sure the girl is safe. The blast doors begin to close as she reaches them. But there she is. The blonde haired sister, running down narrow steps. Her braid bounces. A medical kit is clutched in one hand. And from her vantage point, she can barely see the tail of the medic’s uniform flapping behind her. Her little duck. Almost there. Almost safe.
And then a parachute drops. Falls in front of her sister. The silver, gleaming parachute that was supposed to represent hope within an arena. That represents death now. Because she knows. She knows it’s one of the death traps. One of the explosions that make the halls echo. It’s somehow breached defenses. Made it to the steps.
She tries to mouth a warning. But it’s too late. The world goes black, then red. The sound is deafening.
In the bed, she turns on her side and clutches at the pillow. Still asleep. Still trapped in the nightmare. But now, the tears have begun to fall from her face.
Coin berates her. She’s here. Alive and strong. The new president of Panem. The woman’s features, though, are not exactly how she remembers them. They’re too sharp. Too angry. Maybe she succeeded in killing the real Coin. Maybe the woman was replaced by a mutt. She must be a mutt. Because how could she have survived that arrow? That fall? Whoever she is, she’s in charge now. And she’s the woman’s captive, forced to listen to everything she has to say.
To listen to the list of names. All the names of all the dead. Dead she’s killed. Dead who have died for her. For the Mockingjay. The face of the rebellion. The face of death.
She tries to curl into a ball. Brings her legs in tight against her chest and cover her ears with her hands. Squeeze eyes shut and bury her face against her knees. Make her body as small as possible. Invisible. Non-existent. Incapable of hearing the names. Names that seem to never stop. Only keep going, again and again and again.
--Clove. Cato. Marvel. Glimmer. Rue. Gloss. Cashmere. Wiress. Finnick. Mags. Blight. Cecelia. Woof. Thresh. Chaff. Seeder. Madge. Mayor Undersee. Darius--
Wings, mockingjay wings, wrap around her. Cocoon her. Threaten to suffocate and yet keep her safe. But they don’t work. Don’t kill her and don’t silence Coin. Don’t stop the names from flowing. Names she knows and names she doesn’t. But they’re all the same. All dead because of her.
--Cray. Cinna. Lavinia. Seneca. Portia. Boggs. Castor. Leeg 1 and Leeg 2. Mitchell. Jackson. Holmes. Messalla. Twill. Bonnie--
The names wash over her. Crash like the tidal wave in the clock arena. Drowning. Drowning. She’s drowning in names. In guilt. And in fire. It hurts. So much fire. So much pain. But what other fitting end is there for the girl who was on fire? Who was made memorable by that element?
Fire.
Fire is catching. And if we burn, you burn with us.
She burns. She suffocates and drowns. Gasping for breath, sobbing. But all the while, nothing blocks out the noise. The voice. Coin’s voice. Listing those names. All those names. More are added. New ones. Ones she didn’t think possible. Johanna. Beetee. Her mother. Greasy Sae and the little granddaughter. Cresida. Effie. Haymitch.
Gale.
Peeta.
Names that are utterly impossible to hear. To bear. Names that shouldn’t be said. People who should be alive. Alive! Not dead. Not at all dead.
More tossing and turning in the bed. A low keeling escapes her lips. A tortured moan. Mournful. Lost.]
No, no, no... Peeta!
[At least it’ll all be over soon. Today’s the day of the Mockingjay’s execution. The last day of the rebellion. The day the spark will finally be extinguished for good. It’s only fitting, then, that she wears Cinna’s dress. The red one that had alighted a stage with fire once. It’s looser now. Looser than she remembers. But there’s no mistaking the symbolism in wearing this dress. No mistaking the message Coin intends to send.
She’s even on the stage, though Ceasar Flickerman is nowhere to be found. Dead, a voice whispers in her ear. A snakelike voice, all too reminiscent of the mutts in the sewers. Dead. Dead. Dead. The words are followed by laughter. Too much laughter.
They’re all dead because of her.
And then, everything stills. The auditorium becomes utterly quiet. And a boy steps out . A boy dressed in the pants and shirt of the first arena she had ever been in. The clothing, though, is covered by a baker’s apron. Wings she had forgotten about till now flutter nervously behind her back. Beautiful, horrible Mockingjay wings. Wings that mean she’s not in the Capitol anymore. Not in Panem.
But there’s no mistaking that blonde hair and blue eyes. No mistaking the terrified hatred that turns his face ugly with rage. This will be Snow’s last hurrah. Coin’s. The new Gamemakers messed up. Hijacking the boy had been a mistake. He can’t be hijacked. Because this is the result. This is always, always going to be the result.
He’s her executioner. The boy she was told is dead isn’t. But every step closer, every heartbeat that passes between them, she knows that she will be. Soon. So very soon. Fear and relief war within her. Maybe it’s best this way. Best to be dead. So when hands wrap around her throat and squeeze as they did so long ago in District Thirteen, she knows. Knows what she should have realized all along:
He was never meant to save her.
Eyes open and she bolts upright in bed. And then, she screams.]
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Katniss. Sh-sh. It's okay. I'm here.
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And while Peeta's presence normally brings her ease, on the heals of this nightmare, she recoils. New tears well up in grey eyes. Tears of fear. Tears of sorrow. Is she back in the dream? Is he going to kill her now? Place hands back around her neck and finally crush her larynx?]
Peeta. [His name comes out a strangled sob. Is this it?] Peeta.
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I'm here. You can reach out and touch me. Hold out your hand. I'm here, okay?
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But she's still hesitant.]
You're not going to kill me?
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No! Katniss, what could make you think that?
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June 24th, ~1 am, action
And she wasn't.
Tears sting her eyes as she starts to run. Are they okay? Are they here, in the town? Or did Peeta take them to the treehouse? All the fears, all the worries rush through her mind. She takes no care of those around her. Of the other damage.]
Peeta! [She shouts loudly as she pushes the door open to their house.] Peeta! Rue!
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The lights are not on. He's sitting in the dark until the lights turn on. Even then, he doesn't move.]
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Peeta? Rue?
[Because there's been no response. And when the light flickers on to see a still Peeta on the couch. He hadn't responded to her. Why hadn't he responded? Her stomach flops. It feels as if her heart has sunk to her gut, something almost as bad as a physical hurt. She stops a few feet from him. Her pack and bow drop to the ground.
In a small voice,] Peeta?
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Rue's gone.
[It's spoken quietly, hoarsely, although his face is still.]
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Gone. Gone for good. And never coming back. Little Rue, who had deserved this second chance more than any of them. The girl she had failed once again.
It's hard to find her voice. When she does manage it, manages to open her mouth to get words out, they're still barely a whisper.] How long?
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[How can he end that sentence? It's redundant. It's too painful for both of them, but especially for Katniss. Does this mean he failed her? She sees the young girl as a sort of substitute Prim, and Prim is also dead and gone. What now?]
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September 22, night, action
If she loved him, she'd keep walking. It had been so very, very easy to live up to that promise. Careful to keep the plate balanced in her hands, not to drop any of the precious slices of cake, she walked quietly alongside him from Battle Dome to their house. Determined, quick steps all the way to the front door, too eager to get home to bother with conversation.
Glancing at Peeta and the tray, she purses her lips together in quick thought. "I'll get the door. Is the key still in your pocket?"
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"There aren't any doors to open inside," she counters, walking the remaining few steps to their house. "Which pocket?"
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