[Sometimes, Katniss has her bad days. Sometimes, she has a whole string of them. Days upon days when she's lost in her own world of pain and sadness, when she'll barely even leave the bed, when he has no choice but to wait for her to eventually come back to him.
This time, though, she hasn't.
Nothing his memory can provide sheds light on anything this bad. By the sixth or seventh day, he'd started to lose track of them; time is inconsequential in the oblivion of worry. Distraction, temporary relief can only be found in mindless things he can do with his hands. When baking had hit its limit, he'd found a new project: their fledgling garden, in the same spot where he'd once planted the primroses. Katniss's idea originally, but he'd work on it in her stead, make it as perfect as he could for her, even if it meant repeated sunburns, cuts, and aches he felt like he'd never get rid of.
Something pulls him back to the present. Johanna's voice. "Lover Boy." It's almost laughable; he can hardly be called a boy anymore. Maybe that many years haven't passed, chronologically speaking, but in terms of experience, it's been a million. He's an old man at least twenty times over, with an artificial leg that will always slow him down, with joints in his hands that already constantly creak from the effort it takes to grip the back of a chair and fight an incoming flashback.
Ancient. That's what they all are. Ancient and weary beyond anything quantifiable. And he's never felt like that more than he does right now.
He lets out a breath, setting his hand trowel gently on the ground. Even the pretense of distraction is useless.]
I just don't know what to do. [But he sounds like a boy, doesn't he? Lost. Scared. Vulnerable.]
Post-Mockingjay because I like pain? sob
This time, though, she hasn't.
Nothing his memory can provide sheds light on anything this bad. By the sixth or seventh day, he'd started to lose track of them; time is inconsequential in the oblivion of worry. Distraction, temporary relief can only be found in mindless things he can do with his hands. When baking had hit its limit, he'd found a new project: their fledgling garden, in the same spot where he'd once planted the primroses. Katniss's idea originally, but he'd work on it in her stead, make it as perfect as he could for her, even if it meant repeated sunburns, cuts, and aches he felt like he'd never get rid of.
Something pulls him back to the present. Johanna's voice. "Lover Boy." It's almost laughable; he can hardly be called a boy anymore. Maybe that many years haven't passed, chronologically speaking, but in terms of experience, it's been a million. He's an old man at least twenty times over, with an artificial leg that will always slow him down, with joints in his hands that already constantly creak from the effort it takes to grip the back of a chair and fight an incoming flashback.
Ancient. That's what they all are. Ancient and weary beyond anything quantifiable. And he's never felt like that more than he does right now.
He lets out a breath, setting his hand trowel gently on the ground. Even the pretense of distraction is useless.]
I just don't know what to do. [But he sounds like a boy, doesn't he? Lost. Scared. Vulnerable.]