Pure Torture: a Hunger Games Fanfiction

Chapter 95

Katniss

"There is a house built out of stone.
Wooden floors, walls and window sills, tables and chairs worn by all of the dust. This is a place where I don't feel alone. This is a place where I feel at home." -The Cinematic Orchestra

When Willow is at school, Peeta and I typically spend the day at the bakery. He bakes and decorates things and I sit and watch, not wanting to mess up his process. There have been times when he's tried to teach me, and I know the basics, but it's still not something I enjoy. I guess, though, if I needed to... I could bake a cake. Probably only if it was life or death.

Today, Peeta and I head to the bakery after we drop Willow off at school.
"What are you doing today?" I ask him.
"Filling out more orders. I could use your help." He says. I can hear a hint of hope in his voice.
"Help? Hm, it depends on what you need it with." I reply.
He laughs quietly.

"You won't have to bake anything. I promise." He says.
"I have an appointment today." I remind him.
"I know. But it's only 8:30, it's not going to take you until 1:00 to help me fill orders." He says.
I sigh in mock frustration.
"Peeta, you make me do everything." I joke.

He lets out a little breath, probably meant to be a laugh, and tosses me a clipboard.
"Lucky for us, our never-ending fame has lead to good business. So if there's nothing else we can get out of our past, at least people want to buy my cookies." He says.

He hands me his clipboard to hold and I find myself examining his handwriting. It's almost a work of art in itself. It's neat, but not too neat. I remember all of the boys in school having writing resembling chicken scratch or just being unreadable. Peeta's handwriting is just like him, in a way: handsome, steady, and neat.

Mine, on the other hand, looks different. I never loved my handwriting in school. It wasn't like any of the other girls' handwriting. But now, I sort of like it. You'd think my handwriting would be small and neat, probably because of how drawn-in I am around people, but it's larger than Peeta's. When I'm rushing, it turns into half-cursive, an art I learned from my father before he died.

I don't know if I don't mind my handwriting because it contradicts my personality or if I just like having a piece of my father that became a piece of me.

--

At 12:00, Peeta and I finally leave the bakery after hours of filling orders. I shouldn't complain about how well business is these days, but I can't help it.

We walk hand-in-hand to the hospital. I find myself thankful, as usual, that the district doesn't fuss over us like the Capitol would. A few people smile at us or wave, and I leave it to Peeta to respond back to them. I realize it could make people think I'm cold and unappreciative of what I have, but I don't think I care enough to change.

Peeta and I, while in the waiting room, sit quietly. Nobody throws us a second glance except for the people who clearly aren't native to Twelve.
"That man over there," I say, keeping my eyes focused directly on Peeta's face so as to not look at the man. "He won't stop staring at us."
Peeta's hand finds a spot on my leg to rest on.

"I want him to stop." I complain sheepishly.
"I know you do." Peeta says simply. And then that's it. He doesn't say anything else. That's how I know that's the end of the conversation.

I find myself always reminding myself that Peeta's silence is just his nerves and how he's probably feeling the same anxiety that I am. Every time we come for an ultrasound for our baby, I can practically hear both of our thoughts synchronizing.
What if the baby's not okay? What if last time was the last time we'd ever hear the baby's heartbeat? What if something happened?