Could We Maybe Have Some Katniss And Peeta Actually Bonding And Becoming Close During The Catching Fire

Could we maybe have some katniss and peeta actually bonding and becoming close during the catching fire period (as is touched on in the books, but it’s so brief rip😭)

Lololololol imma give you more than you asked for. I have made the executive decision to write this prompt into a mini-series that’ll ultimately become a Catching Fire/Mockingjay AU. It’ll be a short one, comprised of a series of short - ish oneshots. Hopefully it won’t take me long to write. 🥰🤣. I always say that though 😭.

Okay anyways, this first one is set right after they work on the plant book together after Katniss hurts her foot and tailbone. So after she notices his eyelashes but before her prep team shows up in Twelve and the Quarter Quell announcement is made. 🤗🤗🤗. The first few oneshots in this series are going to be just like this prompt says, Katniss and Peeta getting to know each other more and bonding deeper (a lot lot lot deeper if you know what I mean) in Catching Fire. I hope you like this! I hope anyone who reads this first little oneshot enjoys it!

Peeta and I walk side by side into town, the cobblestone path giving my bad heel some trouble. “Are you alright?” He murmurs, his voice quiet and concerned. My mother let me leave the house for the first time today after after examining my bad foot and appraising it healed enough for a walk through town. I suppose let is a strong word, considering I don’t often ask her for permission these days. I haven’t in years. Not since my father died and especially not since I won the games.

“I’m fine,” I say nonchalantly, hoping that if I act enough like the pain shooting up through my heel and into the backside of my calf is nothing then I’ll convince even myself.

Peeta seems to see through my facade but lets it drop, choosing rather to attempt at distracting me. “Do you like that cloth?” He asks, pointing to some purple material in the town seamstress’ window.

I shrug it off though. “I never cared much for fancy things.” He shoots me a curious look at that and I raise an eyebrow in his direction. “Peeta, do I seem like the kind of person who’d be interested in fancy materials?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “But you do have an eye for beauty.”

Now I look at him curiosity. “Peeta, that’s you? You’re the one around here with the eye for beauty.”

He suddenly laughs and his eyes soften as they lower down to meet mine. “I suppose I do.”

But I’m still on the defensive for some reason. “Even more than that. You have a real weakness for beautiful things.”

“No,” he refutes, his smile becoming a smirk. “No, that’s only when it comes to you.”

I open my mouth to respond before his meaning computes. And then I’m just left speechless, never anticipating the way he can worm compliments and admissions of love into any conversation, always so seamless and always so genuine. Never expecting any sort of response in return but leaving me feeling bashful and guilty just the same.

As if proving he doesn’t expect any confession on my part, he changes the subject, gesturing towards the sweets shop down the way. “Did Cherry get a new flavor?” He asks and I squint, reading the sign.

Cherry is a chubby middle-aged women with at least three kids who I assume are much younger than me. I really don’t know any of them at all, since I’ve never had much reason to go into the shop until recently. Until I became a victor, living in the richest part of Twelve, I never once set foot in the sweets shop, never being able to afford anything in it.

Prim’s been in there though, many times over. She used to stop in, even when our mother couldn’t stand getting out of bed in the morning and looked at us like we were ghosts instead of her children. Prim would stare at the display case and fantasize about the day she could afford any flavor of ice cream or any piece of chocolate the shop had to offer.

She has gotten almost every item on the menu since I won the games. But for some reason, the memory of seven-year-old Prim, gaunt and tiny and the picture of innocence, standing in front of the vanilla ice cream, dreaming of the taste, moves me to abruptly head towards the business.

“Let’s go in there,” I say, grabbing Peeta’s hand before thinking better of it and pulling him towards the sweets shop.

I hear him chuckle behind me, but follow just the same. In fact he seems downright at home inside the business as soon as we cross the threshold. Much to my surprise, for some reason.

We only have to wait in line for a minute or two before a girl, no older than eight, skips up to the register. “Hi, Peeta,” she says brightly, flashing him a smile that reveals two missing teeth.

“Hi, Pixie,” he says in a voice I barely recognize. Have I ever seen him talk to a child before? Never, I realize. Never that I can recall off the top of my head. “What is it that I hear about a new sale?” He asks in a bright tone.

The little girl gets rapidly more and more excited, prattling on about how they got a new flavor straight from the Capitol and that her mother let her try it first and how it’s bright blue and tastes like the sky.

“Hey, when was the last time you tasted the sky?” Peeta murmurs, tugging on her braid gently. Her braid that bears a rather striking resemblance to mine.

Pixie giggles a little and I find the sound surprisingly sweet. Which, I suppose, shouldn’t be a shock since she’s clearly the owner’s — of the sweets shop — child but still. There’s something extremely endearing about her.

And I suddenly cannot help but wonder if this is how Peeta — or any other merchant — feels when watching people from the Seam interact? I can’t explain why but, as I stare at the two of them now, it dawns on me that they look so much alike. The ash blonde hair, the light blue eyes, the rosy cheeks and fair skin. They even have the same exact nose.

“Well, I’d like two cartons of that new flavor then,” Peeta says, still smiling at the little girl. “You officially sold me on that.” She giggles in response and hops off her stepping stool to go scoop up his order.

“Are you a regular here?” I ask quietly, wondering how he’s so completely familiar with this place when he himself said he used to only eat the old, stale bread from the bakery. How much trading would the sweets shop and the Mellark have to do to become this aquatinted? I can’t imagine the witch making friends with much of anyone.

But then again, Peeta did exclusively spend time with the other town kids growing up. Maybe he knows every shop owner and family in town.

I wonder, in the back of my mind, if he knows my grandparents then. If he knows the people who disowned my mother for falling in love with and marrying my father. If he’s ever stopped by the apothecary and bought herbs or remedies from them. Made pleasant conversation or exchanged niceties.

I’ve never known either of them and I never intend to but the idea of Peeta being even cordial with my estranged grandparents makes my skin crawl.

“Katniss,” Peeta says, bringing me back to reality. “What kind of ice cream do you want?”

“Vanilla,” I answer distantly — because it’s Prim’s absolute favorite — before thinking twice and adding in, “and chocolate. Vanilla and chocolate. One of each.”

He repeats my order to Pixie as she hands him his two cartons. At first I think he’s just repeating it because he assumes I’m too shy to order myself. But then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a large wad of cash, handing the entire amount to the little girl.

“Wait, Peeta!’’ I hiss as soon as Pixie goes to collect my ice cream too. “You can’t pay for me.”

“Let me,” he insists, his voice hushed as well. “I want to, Katniss.”

I try to object again but then his eyes meet mine and there’s something else there. There’s something else in his gaze, an intensity I rarely see. The same intensity that appears when he’s drawing, that was there when the peacekeeper in Eleven pressed his gun to me, an intensity that indicates an entire world locked away inside the boy with the bread. An entire world I’ve only recently discovered, that I’ve barely begun to know. Really know, not just as a byproduct of survival, as a byproduct of acting for the cameras, but really come to understand on a deeper level.

Pixie jumps back up onto her stepping stool and hands me a stack of three cartons of ice cream, instead of two. “Here you go, Miss Katniss,” she says in a polite and high-pitched tone. One that reminds me a lot of Prim at her age.

And I can’t help the affection in my tone, in my eyes and my genuine smile, despite the fact that I don’t know this child at all. “Thank you, Pixie. But I did only order two cartons.”

“I know.” She pushes them towards me again, clearly wanting me to take all three. “But I added in strawberry for free. For you guys to share.” Her big blue eyes travel between me and Peeta and I don’t have the heart to turn down an eight-year-old’s generosity.

“Thank you,” I murmur, truly touched by the gesture. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Yes,” Peeta agrees, and him and her share a smile between them, like a secret being exchanged right before me. “That is very kind of you, Pix.”

“Love you,” she murmurs happily, beaming now as she leans across the counter to hug him around the neck.

“Love you too. Tell your mother hi for me,” he adds, scooping up his ice cream in one arm and grasping my hand with his other.

“Okay!” She promises as we leave, waving goodbye until we’re out of sight.

We walk for a solid five minutes down the cobblestone path in total silence before I finally speak. “So you know her really well then?”

It’s a quite obvious fact, given that he just told the little girl he loved her. But for some reason, I still don’t see his answer coming at all. “Katniss,” he says, his tone a little sardonic. “She’s my cousin. Of course I know her well.”

That stops me in my tracks. “She’s your cousin?” I suddenly replay their entire exchange over in my head, their familiarity clicking at last.

And now he’s laughing at me. “Did you never realize half the people from town were related?”

I blink twice, barely giving his question any thought before replying. “It never occurred to me,” I defend, feeling more than a little embarrassed, despite the fact that I had no way of knowing this information. We walk in silence for a few minutes, as he still smiles to himself at my ignorance and I ponder another thought. It’s nothing specific, just a realization the last twenty minutes have really driven home.

Peeta seems to recognize I’m mulling something over. “What’re you thinking about?” He asks as our houses come into view. His fingers press against the space between my brows, the space that gets an angry line every time I’m deep in thought. A result of my instinctive habit of always knitting my brows together.

I look up at him, considering my words for a moment before admitting, “There’s just a lot we still don’t know about each other.”

For some reason Peeta has a solution to this ready and loaded. “Then let’s get to know each other now.”

It sounds so easy when he says it like that. So easy and effortless and nice. All the things our relationship has never gotten a chance to be, having always bore the pressure of survival on it’s back.

I nod, accepting his answer, surprising me how simple it is. “Okay,” I agree and smile at the way he picks up my hand again and squeezes it lightly in response.

He matches my expression. “Okay.”