If anything, it's for the best. Objectively, Katniss knows it's for the best. Rue was never meant to be a piece in anyone else's game; that's the least she could've been ensured. Because she's more than that. It'd been the ultimate insult to bring her here, to mess with time and discredit everything her death had meant.
Good and safe. She clings to the mantra like a lifeline, lets it reverberate in her brain for so long that it practically becomes a part of her. We don't have to worry about her anymore. Good and safe.
But whenever she manages to drift off, the nightmares are worse than they've been in months.
The scene begins tranquilly enough. There's a meadow full of daisies under a cloudless sky. A comforting warmth on her skin from the sun. Mockingjays, which provide a soft melody in the background as they occasionally fly across her view. Maybe the most defining feature, though, is an overwhelming feeling of safety.
The kind of place that only exists in songs.
A little girl laughs, carefree, somewhere out of her field of vision. She turns toward the sound, but that's when everything goes to hell. Spontaneously, without warning, the entire meadow bursts into flames around her. Comforting warmth gives way to burning flesh. Smoke begins to fill the air, to choke her, to obscure almost everything around her.
There are a few things she becomes aware of. The mockingjays no longer sing; instead they become jabberjays, and inundate her with cries of her own name in a voice that's all too familiar. Just barely visible, nearby, the profile of a little girl transforms into a wolf mutt.
She doesn't even have time to react before it bounds for her. Before it pins her down to the ground, bares its teeth at her. Glares at her with Rue's eyes. --
Her throat is too obstructed for the screams to come. Sweating and rapid breathing accompany her abrupt return to consciousness as they always do, but the silence is filled with panic. Wild panic. The only clear thought she can form is that she has to get out of this room. If she doesn't, she'll suffocate. She'll be trapped. She'll...--
Her feet hit the floor and carry her away so quickly it might as well be reflex. She hardly has the capacity for thought to where she's going, so they'll move on their own. Until they stop in front of Peeta's door.
Equally as unthinkingly, she raises her hand to rap her knuckles against it.]
[Peeta glances at the door. He sets his notebook down and walks over to the door.
The nightmares are getting even worse. He closes his eyes and he's back in the arena. He can't see Katniss. He can just hear her screams, Peeta! Peeta! I'm here! Peeta!
Tick, tock, tick, tock
He pauses at the door, shaking his head to rid the fear from his eyes before opening the door.
He can't say he's surprised to see Katniss distraught at night. The nightmares had to be hitting her just as hard. And he knew Rue leaving affected her. He could see a little part of her droop and wither.
Peeta immediately moves to hug her.] Hey, I thought I heard you. Nightmares, huh?
[During a moment of lucidity, it occurs to her that this, her first reaction, is selfish. As selfish as it's ever been; the old, familiar stab of guilt is a logical follower. It's unforgivable that he's even here in the first place. He's clearly leverage, incentive, and it's her fault that the Initiative would even think to take him. Just like it's her fault that he was picked up by the Capitol, left to whatever horrible inevitabilities that will happen to him.
Her fault. All her fault. And now she's seeking him out in the middle of the night, possibly even waking him up, simply because she is having nightmares.
There's an instant when she thinks about leaving, maybe even has a foot half ready to move, but then he opens the door, and it's too late.
She's tired. So tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally, all of it. No matter the guilt that may still persist, she doesn't have the energy to fight his arms encircling her, and instead goes into them easily. The only response she can manage is a nod against his shirt.]
[He gives a sympathetic hum.] Every time I close my eyes, you disappear.
[It's so natural and easy to pull her toward the bed. It's what they've always done. Combat the nightmares together. They've faced every horror imaginable together and yet, the one terror that Peeta can't imagine, that he can't face with her, is the one where she's just out of reach, where she's in trouble. Nightmares where she's dead and it's his fault.
He guides her gently to the bed, an arm still around her, protecting her from the ghostly images in her head. Protecting her from the mutts and the jabberjays and corpses that no doubt filled her mind.
The lamp by his bed is still on, and his sketchbook and pencils lay beside it. The feral face of one of the orange monkeys practically leaps off the page, detailed and nightmarish. He quickly closes the sketchbook, glancing at Katniss to make sure she's all right.]
"My nightmares are usually about losing you. I'm okay once I realize you're here."
Before the chaos, before the Quell, there were those words. They come back to her in a flash. Predictably, like clockwork (tick, tock, tick, tock), the stab of guilt from before grows into something much stronger, hits her with a force that trumps the lash she took to her face and effectively overrides the horrific afterimages of her nightmare, at least for the moment. She sucks in a breath and winces, but that's all she has the energy to do.
The words, though, continue to linger. Continue to preoccupy her.
She barely registers anything outside of them, only being guided, the quick motion that Peeta makes to close his sketchbook(though anything that might've been on the page slips past her notice), until she finally has to say something. Whatever was in her throat won't swallow down, so it's hard to get anything out. Her voice hardly makes it to the volume of audibility.]
I was trying to ooze the nightmares out of my brain and onto paper. [He taps the closed notebook.] Didn't really help.
[He slowly wraps an arm around her and cuddles up to her. It feels good, safe.]
This place... makes you feel at home, doesn't it?
[He wonders if she'll catch on to what he's saying. He's still not sure if they need to be so careful, but it's always a good idea after what they've been through. It feels just like Panem, wondering if there are eyes on you, being thrown into battle with no choice.]
[It does feel safe like this, being held so close. Truly good and safe. It's a pull, almost magnetic, warm and inviting, that draws her in. Maybe it's just another force to contend with, just another confusion to add to the mess of emotions continuing to wage a war inside of her, but at the very least, the lump in her throat dissipates enough to allow her to exhale.
Relief washes through her in response to the change in subject. Her eyes close, partially as a result of that, and partially as a result of wanting to ensure she sees nothing. If his paintings had been anything to go by, she's better off not knowing what was inside that sketchbook. Especially not now, not when so much is still so fresh. Not when volatility could still tip a delicate balance of superficial ease in any direction; not when she's still an effective time bomb.
Tick, tock.
"Home" is a word that's still charged, one that has the potential to set her off without much warning, when the concept of it is gone and that inexistence is a ghost that haunts her ceaselessly. But it's a charge that dies before it sparks, lost in the oblivion of her own personal battle. She knows what he means; it's an expression of a thought that's crossed her mind more than several times in all these months. How, at its core, a lot of it isn't much different. Different game, different players, but, in fact, still a game...--
Still quietly, though with more volume than before:]
action; dated to like the wee-ish hours of the morning on the 13th?
If anything, it's for the best. Objectively, Katniss knows it's for the best. Rue was never meant to be a piece in anyone else's game; that's the least she could've been ensured. Because she's more than that. It'd been the ultimate insult to bring her here, to mess with time and discredit everything her death had meant.
Good and safe. She clings to the mantra like a lifeline, lets it reverberate in her brain for so long that it practically becomes a part of her. We don't have to worry about her anymore. Good and safe.
But whenever she manages to drift off, the nightmares are worse than they've been in months.
The scene begins tranquilly enough. There's a meadow full of daisies under a cloudless sky. A comforting warmth on her skin from the sun. Mockingjays, which provide a soft melody in the background as they occasionally fly across her view. Maybe the most defining feature, though, is an overwhelming feeling of safety.
The kind of place that only exists in songs.
A little girl laughs, carefree, somewhere out of her field of vision. She turns toward the sound, but that's when everything goes to hell. Spontaneously, without warning, the entire meadow bursts into flames around her. Comforting warmth gives way to burning flesh. Smoke begins to fill the air, to choke her, to obscure almost everything around her.
There are a few things she becomes aware of. The mockingjays no longer sing; instead they become jabberjays, and inundate her with cries of her own name in a voice that's all too familiar. Just barely visible, nearby, the profile of a little girl transforms into a wolf mutt.
She doesn't even have time to react before it bounds for her. Before it pins her down to the ground, bares its teeth at her. Glares at her with Rue's eyes. --
Her throat is too obstructed for the screams to come. Sweating and rapid breathing accompany her abrupt return to consciousness as they always do, but the silence is filled with panic. Wild panic. The only clear thought she can form is that she has to get out of this room. If she doesn't, she'll suffocate. She'll be trapped. She'll...--
Her feet hit the floor and carry her away so quickly it might as well be reflex. She hardly has the capacity for thought to where she's going, so they'll move on their own. Until they stop in front of Peeta's door.
Equally as unthinkingly, she raises her hand to rap her knuckles against it.]
sounds good sobs ;;
The nightmares are getting even worse. He closes his eyes and he's back in the arena. He can't see Katniss. He can just hear her screams, Peeta! Peeta! I'm here! Peeta!
Tick, tock, tick, tock
He pauses at the door, shaking his head to rid the fear from his eyes before opening the door.
He can't say he's surprised to see Katniss distraught at night. The nightmares had to be hitting her just as hard. And he knew Rue leaving affected her. He could see a little part of her droop and wither.
Peeta immediately moves to hug her.] Hey, I thought I heard you. Nightmares, huh?
sobs 5ever ;;
Her fault. All her fault. And now she's seeking him out in the middle of the night, possibly even waking him up, simply because she is having nightmares.
There's an instant when she thinks about leaving, maybe even has a foot half ready to move, but then he opens the door, and it's too late.
She's tired. So tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally, all of it. No matter the guilt that may still persist, she doesn't have the energy to fight his arms encircling her, and instead goes into them easily. The only response she can manage is a nod against his shirt.]
no subject
[It's so natural and easy to pull her toward the bed. It's what they've always done. Combat the nightmares together. They've faced every horror imaginable together and yet, the one terror that Peeta can't imagine, that he can't face with her, is the one where she's just out of reach, where she's in trouble. Nightmares where she's dead and it's his fault.
He guides her gently to the bed, an arm still around her, protecting her from the ghostly images in her head. Protecting her from the mutts and the jabberjays and corpses that no doubt filled her mind.
The lamp by his bed is still on, and his sketchbook and pencils lay beside it. The feral face of one of the orange monkeys practically leaps off the page, detailed and nightmarish. He quickly closes the sketchbook, glancing at Katniss to make sure she's all right.]
no subject
...
"My nightmares are usually about losing you. I'm okay once I realize you're here."
Before the chaos, before the Quell, there were those words. They come back to her in a flash. Predictably, like clockwork (tick, tock, tick, tock), the stab of guilt from before grows into something much stronger, hits her with a force that trumps the lash she took to her face and effectively overrides the horrific afterimages of her nightmare, at least for the moment. She sucks in a breath and winces, but that's all she has the energy to do.
The words, though, continue to linger. Continue to preoccupy her.
She barely registers anything outside of them, only being guided, the quick motion that Peeta makes to close his sketchbook(though anything that might've been on the page slips past her notice), until she finally has to say something. Whatever was in her throat won't swallow down, so it's hard to get anything out. Her voice hardly makes it to the volume of audibility.]
You should've come and found me.
no subject
[He slowly wraps an arm around her and cuddles up to her. It feels good, safe.]
This place... makes you feel at home, doesn't it?
[He wonders if she'll catch on to what he's saying. He's still not sure if they need to be so careful, but it's always a good idea after what they've been through. It feels just like Panem, wondering if there are eyes on you, being thrown into battle with no choice.]
no subject
Relief washes through her in response to the change in subject. Her eyes close, partially as a result of that, and partially as a result of wanting to ensure she sees nothing. If his paintings had been anything to go by, she's better off not knowing what was inside that sketchbook. Especially not now, not when so much is still so fresh. Not when volatility could still tip a delicate balance of superficial ease in any direction; not when she's still an effective time bomb.
Tick, tock.
"Home" is a word that's still charged, one that has the potential to set her off without much warning, when the concept of it is gone and that inexistence is a ghost that haunts her ceaselessly. But it's a charge that dies before it sparks, lost in the oblivion of her own personal battle. She knows what he means; it's an expression of a thought that's crossed her mind more than several times in all these months. How, at its core, a lot of it isn't much different. Different game, different players, but, in fact, still a game...--
Still quietly, though with more volume than before:]
Sometimes.