[The Hunger Games] Healing
Title: Healing
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters/Pairing: Peeta; some Peeta/Katniss.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,091
Notes: Written for the fic prompt.
Summary: After the fires, Peeta does what he can to get better.
I don't remember how I got to the City Circle. No, I remember one thing. Gunshots. Were they mine, or someone else's? I don't know. I lose more memories that way.
But there is one memory I know I won't lose. It's not the parachutes dropping out of the sky into the waiting children's hands. That just threatens to send me back into the arena, where I am trying to do something to Katniss, either kill her or save her, it's hard to remember now. It's not the first series of explosions. They just remind me that I still have to either kill or save Katniss.
It's the sight of her--I know it's her, somehow, even in the Capitol disguise--running towards the carnage. The knowledge of what will happen next. The sudden click of a switch in my head as something that's been poised on the brink finally settles: not kill, never kill. Save. I've always been meant to save her.
I rush forward. Too late. The fire of the second set of explosions spreads around her like wings, and that, too, is an image I will always remember. Then it reaches me, and I'm consumed.
The brightness of the fire turns to the black ash of unconsciousness. It's not merciful. It scorches me all the way down.
Later, half-awake in the dark because of the incredible pain, I wait to find out if Katniss is alive before I resurface into the light. There's no point in coming back if she isn't. Let me stay covered in ash until I choke on it.
But instead of Katniss comes morphling, and I am plunged into too-sweet dreams. In them I try to reconstruct her face, her body, her hands on a bowstring. I curse my distorted memories of her for failing me. In the end, the only image I can summon up is Katniss with those wings of fire about to fold in on her and destroy her. I force myself awake when I know I shouldn't be. The pain is too intense. It's all right. I know how to deal with pain. I just--
--think of Katniss. No, I don't know how to deal with pain if I don't know whether Katniss is alive or dead. That's the final impetus I need to finish reaching for consciousness.
A nurse recoils as I open my eyes. I'm not supposed to be awake. I try to say, Katniss, but all that comes out is a hoarse hiss. There's nothing for it but action. With impossibly weak and agonized arms, I steadily take the tubes and needles out from my skin, one by one. The nurse, in alarm, tries to put them back in. I keep taking them out. The balm of the morphling leaves me in the care of nothing but pain instead.
"You can stop," a voice says from the doorway, weary and knowing. It's Haymitch. "She's alive."
No comfort in the words. I try to swallow so I can speak. "Might be lying," I rasp out. I need to see her.
Haymitch stares at me with a dull lack of expression for a moment. Then he says, "Take him to see her or he'll never shut up. Probably kill himself too." Then he turns and walks out. He was never that interested in me anyway. Always Katniss. We were all always more interested in Katniss. It's the way she is.
The nurses protest that I'm too weak, too burned. Katniss is still under the morphling. I should be too. If I get up now, it'll double my healing time.
"Won't heal at all if I don't," I manage to say, once again pulling out another tube a nurse has tried to sneak into my arm. They don't understand how true it is. I can't heal without knowing whether Katniss is alive. She's the only reason I heal in the first place. I shy away from thinking of why, because I still can't handle those warped memories. I just have to see Katniss.
In the end, although the doctors continue to advise against it, the nurses see sense, or at least see that I won't see sense. When the doctors aren't looking, two of the largest nurses gently pick me up from my foamy, burn-soothing bed and walk me down the hall. Every step is agony. I do it anyway.
They lead me into a room in the burn unit just like mine. And there she is. Real. Passed out under the influence of the morphling that I've been rejecting. My world settles back into place under my feet. "Katniss."
Only after I've taken in her presence completely do I notice that her mother is sitting at her side, looking more like a paper ghost than a human being. Prim is nowhere to be seen. I look from Katniss to her mother. I take in how readily Katniss sleeps under the morphling when any other time she would have struggled awake, like I did. I stare at the empty look on her mother's face, and then I turn away. The nurses take me back to my room, and I finally stop resisting as they hook me up to all the tubes again. Once more, morphling floods my system. I let it take me this time.
When I finally wake up, I lie there in silence for a while, thinking about what I must do. About the memories I haven't wanted to confront, the feelings I've ducked and dodged. The haze that lies over my mind. It isn't acceptable anymore. When Katniss wakes up, I need to be there for her.
So I reach out for a nurse's hand. "I need a doctor," I say hoarsely.
"There are plenty of doctors around," she reassures me.
I shake my head a tiny bit, conscious of the pain it causes. "No. A..." I forget the word I learned in District 13. "For my mind," I finish instead.
The nurse looks at me for a moment, faintly puzzled. She must not be used to such directness in this subject. I try to smile at her. "I need your help too," I say. "But I need this now."
"I'll get Dr. Aurelius," she finally says.
The man who walks in half an hour later does in fact introduce himself as Dr. Aurelius. Then he looks at me. "And what's your name?"
That's when I realize I don't remember.
This is going to take longer than I thought. Will I be there for Katniss in time?
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters/Pairing: Peeta; some Peeta/Katniss.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1,091
Notes: Written for the fic prompt.
Summary: After the fires, Peeta does what he can to get better.
I don't remember how I got to the City Circle. No, I remember one thing. Gunshots. Were they mine, or someone else's? I don't know. I lose more memories that way.
But there is one memory I know I won't lose. It's not the parachutes dropping out of the sky into the waiting children's hands. That just threatens to send me back into the arena, where I am trying to do something to Katniss, either kill her or save her, it's hard to remember now. It's not the first series of explosions. They just remind me that I still have to either kill or save Katniss.
It's the sight of her--I know it's her, somehow, even in the Capitol disguise--running towards the carnage. The knowledge of what will happen next. The sudden click of a switch in my head as something that's been poised on the brink finally settles: not kill, never kill. Save. I've always been meant to save her.
I rush forward. Too late. The fire of the second set of explosions spreads around her like wings, and that, too, is an image I will always remember. Then it reaches me, and I'm consumed.
The brightness of the fire turns to the black ash of unconsciousness. It's not merciful. It scorches me all the way down.
Later, half-awake in the dark because of the incredible pain, I wait to find out if Katniss is alive before I resurface into the light. There's no point in coming back if she isn't. Let me stay covered in ash until I choke on it.
But instead of Katniss comes morphling, and I am plunged into too-sweet dreams. In them I try to reconstruct her face, her body, her hands on a bowstring. I curse my distorted memories of her for failing me. In the end, the only image I can summon up is Katniss with those wings of fire about to fold in on her and destroy her. I force myself awake when I know I shouldn't be. The pain is too intense. It's all right. I know how to deal with pain. I just--
--think of Katniss. No, I don't know how to deal with pain if I don't know whether Katniss is alive or dead. That's the final impetus I need to finish reaching for consciousness.
A nurse recoils as I open my eyes. I'm not supposed to be awake. I try to say, Katniss, but all that comes out is a hoarse hiss. There's nothing for it but action. With impossibly weak and agonized arms, I steadily take the tubes and needles out from my skin, one by one. The nurse, in alarm, tries to put them back in. I keep taking them out. The balm of the morphling leaves me in the care of nothing but pain instead.
"You can stop," a voice says from the doorway, weary and knowing. It's Haymitch. "She's alive."
No comfort in the words. I try to swallow so I can speak. "Might be lying," I rasp out. I need to see her.
Haymitch stares at me with a dull lack of expression for a moment. Then he says, "Take him to see her or he'll never shut up. Probably kill himself too." Then he turns and walks out. He was never that interested in me anyway. Always Katniss. We were all always more interested in Katniss. It's the way she is.
The nurses protest that I'm too weak, too burned. Katniss is still under the morphling. I should be too. If I get up now, it'll double my healing time.
"Won't heal at all if I don't," I manage to say, once again pulling out another tube a nurse has tried to sneak into my arm. They don't understand how true it is. I can't heal without knowing whether Katniss is alive. She's the only reason I heal in the first place. I shy away from thinking of why, because I still can't handle those warped memories. I just have to see Katniss.
In the end, although the doctors continue to advise against it, the nurses see sense, or at least see that I won't see sense. When the doctors aren't looking, two of the largest nurses gently pick me up from my foamy, burn-soothing bed and walk me down the hall. Every step is agony. I do it anyway.
They lead me into a room in the burn unit just like mine. And there she is. Real. Passed out under the influence of the morphling that I've been rejecting. My world settles back into place under my feet. "Katniss."
Only after I've taken in her presence completely do I notice that her mother is sitting at her side, looking more like a paper ghost than a human being. Prim is nowhere to be seen. I look from Katniss to her mother. I take in how readily Katniss sleeps under the morphling when any other time she would have struggled awake, like I did. I stare at the empty look on her mother's face, and then I turn away. The nurses take me back to my room, and I finally stop resisting as they hook me up to all the tubes again. Once more, morphling floods my system. I let it take me this time.
When I finally wake up, I lie there in silence for a while, thinking about what I must do. About the memories I haven't wanted to confront, the feelings I've ducked and dodged. The haze that lies over my mind. It isn't acceptable anymore. When Katniss wakes up, I need to be there for her.
So I reach out for a nurse's hand. "I need a doctor," I say hoarsely.
"There are plenty of doctors around," she reassures me.
I shake my head a tiny bit, conscious of the pain it causes. "No. A..." I forget the word I learned in District 13. "For my mind," I finish instead.
The nurse looks at me for a moment, faintly puzzled. She must not be used to such directness in this subject. I try to smile at her. "I need your help too," I say. "But I need this now."
"I'll get Dr. Aurelius," she finally says.
The man who walks in half an hour later does in fact introduce himself as Dr. Aurelius. Then he looks at me. "And what's your name?"
That's when I realize I don't remember.
This is going to take longer than I thought. Will I be there for Katniss in time?