stillplaying | 7th Game [action/voice]

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7th Game [action/voice]

[Action]

[The bakery is a mess. She never meant for it to end up that way. It just sort of happened. Flour covering hair and body, the smell of something burning from the kitchen, flecks of pink frosting teasing her cheeks. Peeta's normally presentable window displays are less than ideal; a poor attempt at recreating the alluring cakes that always caught her attention back in District Twelve. The frosting's melted from the summer heat on one that's sat out since Friday. Another is poorly covered with a grey color -- an attempt at mixing food dyes gone horribly wrong.

Ingredients for various baked goods have somehow escaped the kitchen, piled up on the counters, half covering the note cards Peeta had left for her. Cookbooks borrowed from the library lie open elsewhere, pages now far from pristine. Half baked pretzels stock the shelves along with burnt chocolate chip cookies. Deformed cheese breads and crumbled brownie bites still in their trays sit nearby. Even Buttercup, easily pleased by any free food, ignores the easy pickings.

She tried. She had tried so hard. Peeta had left her recipes. Had tried to teach her how to bake on lazy days when she was more content to spend time with him in the bakery than go about her own thing. It seems that every lesson has been forgotten. Any skill she might have had in the kitchen, utterly gone.

The rain pours outside as she plucks at the rock hard shortbread cookies she's recently retrieved from the oven, trying her best to peel them from the tray. It's a halfhearted effort as she leans her head against her hand and stares out the window. She'd rather be hunting. But it's been raining ever since Peeta left for his mission, raining so hard, all she's been able to do is check a couple of the traps in the river behind their house. And she had promised, hadn't she? Promised she'd look after the bakery?

Look how miserably she failed, the worry making it hard to breathe, harder to concentrate. Shouldn't he be back by now? Shouldn't he?

Every few minutes, she checks the journal for signs of life. Ignores Buttercup begging for real food. Glances at the door to see if Peeta's finally return. No luck. No luck at all. He's supposed to be back today. Why isn't he back yet?]

[Voice]

Why do you bother? [The words aren't meant to be recorded in the journal, but they are, anyway. It barely processes to Katniss that she's left it laying open, close enough to pick up any mutterings.] Going on these missions? Being a piece in their games?

It's stupid. This is all stupid.

[ooc: timed to after mission is over, when people start arriving home. but if you want to tag during -- feel free to have katniss in the bakery making a mess from friday on!

also, edit for warning of sexual content in the Peeta thread.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[A flaky roll with chocolate. She's never heard of anything called an Orlesian before. But she's certainly watched Peeta make a lot of different pastries with chocolate in them.

But this one would be meant for breakfast. And, given the description, one she could never afford before the Games.]

...you mean a croissant?

Ah, yes that is the one. It goes well with the coffee I take in the morning. And while I could go to the cafe and have my breakfast without the croissant, it simply would not be the same. I'm a creature of habit, you see.

[He grins and it's sincere. Friendly. When he has the opportunity to develop a routine? He doesn't mind sticking to it.]

[She's seen Peeta make them before, gotten to taste them fresh from the oven. They really are a wonderful breakfast treat, though Katniss will happily skip the coffee. But it didn't look easy. Far, far from it.

And a glance down at her rows of burnt cookies leaves an uncomfortable pit in her stomach. This is a deal she might not be able to fulfill.]

I don't know if I can make those.

[After a moment's contemplation, Zevran shrugs. It mattered not if he went without for one morning. He will just have to take his coffee by itself once he's done here. Perhaps he'll try that caramel beverage.]

Perhaps with another set of hands and eyes here to assist you could manage and if not? I'll not hold it against you. One does not go to a fish monger and expect them to sew a dress. A huntress does not always need to know how to bake.

[No. A huntress does not need to know how to bake. Especially when the baker is her roommate.

She glances at one of the cookbooks lying open on the counter. The man had been useful with her snares.]

There could be a recipe in one of these books.

First it might be best to clean up a bit, wouldn't you say?

[He's already making his way around the counter, searching for clean rags or a broom or something to help with this mess.]

It will not take long, Solano.

[She looks up at the use of a nickname. It's not the first time he's called her that. She never realized that it would stick.

But it's not bad. It's better than if he were to call her Catnip. Or Mockingjay. Names she'd prefer never to hear again.]

There's cleaning supplies in the kitchen.

[And another mess to straighten up as well.]

[Apparently delicate and appealing to the eye. Secret and sweet- and lethal. He couldn't help but think it suited her.]

To the kitchen we go.

[Zev isn't overly familiar with the layout and he has to step carefully to avoid mussing up his jeans, they were strange and new to him but seemed similar enough to what most wore, so he took care of them as best he could.]

[She leads the way. Even before substituting as baker for Peeta, she had become familiar with the layout. Spent enough time here, with Rue and without. Even before Peeta's arrival, it had been the place to get fresh bread and rolls during supply trips into the village.

She pushes open the door to the kitchen. Like the room outside, it's a mess. Flour everywhere. Trays and pans stacked on counters. She's really had a hard time of it. But she keeps her expression steady as she walks over to the closet.]

The brooms are in here.

[Zev keeps his thoughts to himself as he follows her, and if his eyes wander across the set of her shoulders and dip down to the small of her back out of habit, well. It isn't in the interest of seeking a bed partner. Looking for weapons. A woman as weary as Katniss was likely to carry something. If not she was either more anxious than she appeared or felt safe in the bakery. Either was likely.

Once they enter the kitchen he stalls in the doorway, blinking around the thoroughly coated counters and trays.]

We...may need more than a broom to start.

[She had left her bow and arrow behind the counter. In the village, she carried no smaller weapons on her body. There was no need, not when she primarily used them for field dressing or preparing traps. And maybe it was Peeta's influence, but for some reason, she felt as safe in the bakery as she did in the treehouse by the western lake or the home they've made for themselves here.

Pulling out two brooms, she looks back at him. There's a slight crease between her eyebrows and she tilts her head.]

What would you recommend?

A new kitchen? [He cracks a laugh, something easy and almost too sharp in the room.] No? Ah, well. Rags, I think. Get the worst of the flour on the floor then sweep that out. After that there will be much washing to be had.

I'm certain something more will present itself as we move along.

[It's not funny. The way her head darts up, like a deer caught in the path of an arrow, says as much. A new kitchen?

Not funny at all.

But rags are acceptable. A second or two later, she nods and returns to the closet.] We have rags somewhere.

It was a joke, Solano. I make them often, and mean nothing by them.

[Skittish little thing, isn't she? He makes a mental note to attempt to curb his more wicked tendencies around her while he makes his way to the closet. He rummages around for rags until he finds some in a far corner.]

Ah-ha. Here we are.

[Too much of the past two years of her life had been spent fighting, killing. Watching others die around her. She's never been trusting to begin with. It's harder now, no matter how much she tries. How much she reminds herself every day that the people in the village with her are not her enemies.

She stands aside for him to enter the closet, though not too far away that she can't watch what he's doing.]

The bucket is under the sink. I can get it.

You do that. I shall see if I cannot unearth more cleaning supplies to help us do battle with flour and...whatever else it is dusting the counters. Some of it seems too course to be flour.

[He didn't know much of baking, but he knew flour well enough to know how to mix in a poison and walk away. And that did not seem like flour entirely.]

[Dough made a different kind of mess than pure flour, she quickly learned. Add in melted chocolate for brownies and a spillage of chopped nuts and the counter was a mess. One Katniss tried her best not to look at too much.

She nodded and turned around to walk to the sink. Maybe it was risky to turn her back to him, but the man had had plenty of other opportunities to hurt her. It was unlikely he would try something now.

After bending down to pull it out, she turns on the tap and begins to fill the bucket.]

[His thoughts are far more occupied with breakfast, coffee, and the odd memory of having to at least pretend to know what he was doing while cleaning a kitchen for the sake of a job. The supplies here were different, but something that looks much like soap for all that it smelled of lemons and citrus was exactly what they needed. He sets it out with the rags and pulls a tie from his pocket, binding back his hair entirely.]

It is fortunate I am not overly attached to these clothes. I honestly do not see getting through this without mussing them to some degree.

[She looks over at him when he speaks. Grey eyes flicker up and down thoughtfully. They're just clothes in the end. And the ones he wears now don't seem particularly special to her.

His comment ultimately makes her frown.] You can wash them.

Which is the point I was making. With the work I've done it's a rare thing to become attached to clothing. There will always be a mess no matter what you plan.

[He shrugs, the motion fluid, nuanced, and enigmatic.]

[Blood. Guts. Something else entirely. The kind of mess the man describes flashes through her mind too quickly. Too many memories. Too much ruined clothing.

All she can do in that moment is freeze. Drop the water bucket in the sink and squeeze her eyes shut tight. Too many memories. Too many.]

[That wasn't a reaction he expected- and despite himself he finds his feet moving him across to her side, one hand on her shoulder, the other curling in hers. Whatever life this girl has lived it seemed to align with his own far too much for his peace of mind.]

Breathe, Solano. Just breathe.

[It's been a while since she's felt like this. Her Lost Days have become fewer and fewer with the time spent in Luceti. As much as she hates it here, hates knowing she's another pawn in another game, it's also given her something to live for. Reasons to wake up each morning. Doctor Aurelius had been right about her needing that.

But when the memories hit, even breathing becomes difficult. More often, it's at night and Peeta's there to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. Nothing more. Nothing more is needed. But he's not here right now. He's on that mission and what if he never comes home?

Breathe. She hears Zevran's voice and manages to keep herself from doing more than flinching at his touch. It's meant to be reassuring. Breathe.]

I'm - I'm breathing.

[There was something horribly familiar in this- a younger woman, with paler hair and eyes. She hadn't lasted much longer in the Crows. The remorseful never do. As he did then, he did now. Steps in close and lifts the hand he held to rest it against his chest, his own steady heartbeat. Breathed deep and even and kept his eyes on her face.]

Breathe- and thing of something else. Focus on what brings you joy. Ignore the pain, ignore the blood. That is over, that does not matter anymore. Think only of something bright and peaceful. The forest in the early morning- the sound of a river. Laughter of someone that you love.

Focus on that to the exclusion of all else. And breathe.

[His heartbeat was soothing, steady. But not like Peeta's heartbeat. Peeta, who knew how to soothe her better than almost anyone else. Better than Gale or Finnick or even Prim. Maybe because he had been there, witnessed the horrors that only the arena could bring. Maybe that's what made him so good at keeping the nightmares at bay.

But he's not here now. She doesn't know when he'll be home. And that lack of knowledge threatens to overwhelm her. She tries to still her thoughts, tries to focus on what Zevran's saying. Think only of something bright and peaceful. The forest. Laughter. A dandelion in the spring? That sign of rebirth and hope, that life could be good again. The color of Peeta's wings, that same shade as the dandelion. His smile and kind blue eyes. The same blue eyes and golden hair her sister had, somehow succeeding in evading that notable look of the Seam - the dark hair, olive skin, and grey eyes Katniss had inherited from their father. And Prim's laugh. Better than any song.

Her sister, now dead. Never to laugh again.]

I'm okay. [The words are hollow and weak, not all that convincing. But she pulls away from Zevran's grasp. She can't meet his eyes.] I'm okay.

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