In some way, Katniss is glad that Buffy knows who she really is now. It seems better than leaving her with any ridiculous notions of her being a good person, or at least that's how she sees it. Maybe the kindness in the other woman's eyes and the innocent curiosity in her questions would fade into a dreaded realization and Katniss would witness her face closing off before her very eyes. No more smiles, no more light quips. Fine, whatever. It's no big deal to her; Katniss would much rather know the score than pretend because all she ever did in the Capitol was pretend.
The last thing she's expecting is for Buffy to approach her.
Katniss is a hunter. She knows how to look for the details that so often meant the difference between life and death. The slightest variation in the leaves of certain plants, for example, was the difference between nourishment and poison. She notes the tension in Buffy's steps, the cautiousness and she's almost grimly satisfied. Yet deep inside, she can't help but notice that it hurts, too.
There's too much blood. She doesn't want to stain the flowers, so Katniss lightly tosses them into a pile, wiping her slick palms on the grass where it glistens in the afternoon sun.
"Primroses," Katniss says, looking back. A beautiful flower named for a beautiful girl. The plant that she was named after were not as pretty, but were much more practical in terms of the fact that they could be eaten. But she doesn't want to dwell on her sister too much these days; six months later it still hurts enough to completely disable her.
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The last thing she's expecting is for Buffy to approach her.
Katniss is a hunter. She knows how to look for the details that so often meant the difference between life and death. The slightest variation in the leaves of certain plants, for example, was the difference between nourishment and poison. She notes the tension in Buffy's steps, the cautiousness and she's almost grimly satisfied. Yet deep inside, she can't help but notice that it hurts, too.
There's too much blood. She doesn't want to stain the flowers, so Katniss lightly tosses them into a pile, wiping her slick palms on the grass where it glistens in the afternoon sun.
"Primroses," Katniss says, looking back. A beautiful flower named for a beautiful girl. The plant that she was named after were not as pretty, but were much more practical in terms of the fact that they could be eaten. But she doesn't want to dwell on her sister too much these days; six months later it still hurts enough to completely disable her.