did someone ask for Peetaâs parents being cute? just me? okay, thatâll work. I think this could be canon-compliant, but it could also be an AU in which Peetaâs family is functional (think of all the good angst we could get from that ⊠his mother coming to give him a genuine goodbye? my heart?) ⊠anyway, hereâs Wonderwall
The summer after Caroline Axson ran away with a coal miner, Marta Becker found herself standing at the foot of the old apple tree outside the bakery, waiting for Bara Mellark to finish his shift, and trying not to feel jealous about being second best.
Sheâd compensated for the feeling by wearing her best. Her best dress, a pale lavender number inherited from her fastidiously neat cousin Ilsa, and matching ribbons in her candy floss hair. Her best shoes, shined so thoroughly they practically sparkled. Her motherâs necklace, a generations battered locket in the shape of a heart, with the weathered photo of some long dead Becker ancestor inside. It wasnât perfect, but it was her best.
She perked up at the pleasant ring of the bakery bell, and the familiar snap of the screen door, as Samuel Mellarkâs oldest son came down the rickety stairs, holding a paper bag. He looked tired, and sweaty, what with standing guard over the big ovens all day, but he smiled when he caught sight of her, and her heart gave a small skip.
âI was hoping youâd be here,â Bara Mellark said.
âWere you?â she replied, half-teasing, half-genuinely curious.
âCourse I was,â he said, cheeks dimpling. âPaâs in a shit mood because our flour shipmentâs late. Like I can help that.â
Marta rolled her eyes. âLike any of us can. Do you still want to come to market with me? We donât have to.â
Bara rubbed the back of his neck with a large palm. âI was thinking we could go down to Red Bridge?â He held up the paper bag, which looked like it was holding something heavy, a bottle of some sort. âI may have got us something.â
âYou didnât steal us alcohol, did you?â Marta asked, eyes widening. It wasnât that she was opposed to the idea. In fact, the notion of sitting on Red Bridge with their feet dangling over the creek, and sharing a sun-warmed bottle of whiskey between their lips sounded dangerously romantic. It just didnât sound like Bara Mellark.
âI didnât steal it,â he said. âI bought it, fair and square.â Then his face colored bashfully. âWell, I said it was for my father, for baking. But itâs not. Itâs for us. That is â I mean â if you want.â
Marta laughed in surprise and delight. âIâd love to! But isnât that expensive?â It wasnât that alcohol was in short supply in 12. One could get their fill of spirits, from something resembling a decent blackberry wine to powerful bathtub gin that was more useful for sterilizing wounds than drinking, but they all came at a hefty price.
But Bara only shrugged. âI saved up. Saved my tips. My birthday money.â
âWhy?â Marta inquired, wondering if he ever saved up money to share whiskey with Caroline Axson at Red Bridge, and then trying not to think of it.
Bara smiled. âYou deserve the best,â he said. He held out his hand for hers. âShould we go? Before Pa can put me back to work?â
The words made Martaâs feet feel light in her sparkling shoes, and she felt drunk without having taken a sip of the bottle. She took his hand, and, before she could lose her nerve, she kissed his cheek, laughing when he blushed so fiercely, it was as if her lips had sunburned him.
âYes,â she said, feeling suddenly that it didnât matter if Caroline Axson had once been in her place. She was here now, and she was going to make the best of it.