My final submission to the Everlark Prompt Week and probably my last submission for a while. I'm still not sure whether I will be inspired enough to write more HG fanfiction but I do know that I really loved writing these little one-shots, and every review and "follow" made my day. So I might find the courage to write something more, possibly a multi-chapter fic, in the future. Anyway, I hope you like this, and thanks again! :)

Ruined.

That is the only possible conclusion that I can come to as I look at the result of my attempts at sewing the hem of his tan pants. The seam is completely uneven, interspersed with random holes where my stitching endeavours were particularly over-enthusiastic, and lined with blood stains resulting from the numerous pricks by the same needle that I have just misplaced, and which will probably find itself lodged in my foot or Peeta's later on this evening.

I do try, so very very hard, to try and compensate for his constant attempts at making my life that little much easier since he returned back home to District 12. It doesn't take much, even for a selfish creature such as me, to realise that he is constantly struggling to put aside his needs, and the motions and tasks he needed to follow to make progress in his recovery. Everything that surrounds me reminds me of his efforts in bringing about my return to sanity and consciousness - from the fresh flowers on the table, to the pristine state of my rooms. He encourages me everyday to clean and tidy up the house, sharing the chores patiently with me. He believes that small achievements, such as making the bed or straightening the cushions on the couch, would help bring order in my mind, and fill me with a sense of satisfaction of a job well completed. After the first few try, I was amazed at the fact that it worked, and if I were a well-adjusted, grateful person, I would have thanked Dr Aurelius for that insight. Since I am not, I let it go, but made sure to season the venison with Peeta's favourite herbs that night, just because he deserved a tastier dinner and because I wanted to give it to him. I'm not sure he noticed the link, but his empty plate and satisfied smile filled my heart with warmth.

Even bloody Buttercup is looking healthier these days, his orange coat shiny and soft from Peeta's administrations and attempts at finding him fresher food to eat. The stupid cat adores Peeta, and were it not for the remaining shred of dignity that remains in me, I would start to compete with the stupdi cat for his attentions. I glare at him as he rolls on his back and allows Peeta's fingers to tickle his tummy, and I swear that he reacts with a special kind of feline smirk as he purs to his heart's content.

Bloody Buttercup.

Misplaced jealousy of a cat or not, I know that Peeta is once again setting aside his life for me, and this time, I see it, appreciate it, embrace it and open wide my heart to receive from him whatever he wants to give me. It took his hijacking in the Capitol to show me what life without Peeta Mellark's unconditional love would mean for me. It's a life made up of misery, rage and helplessness, and I have learnt the hard way that everything can be taken away from me without a minute's notice. However, instead of turning away from the possibility of happiness with him, I am slowly starting to learn to lean into it as if each day were the last.

It is in this mindset that I decided to stop receiving exclusively, and to start giving something back. Thus when, I heard Peeta telling Delly Cartwright, newly established, and only, seamstress in the District, that he would be bringing over to her shop some clothes that needed mending, I immediately set out to surprise him by taking over that task myself. One would think that living in destitution for most of my life would have led me to become self sufficient in most areas, but sewing is a skill that seems to have eluded me during my formative years, and the result of that is a pile of clothes that is lying next to me which is completely unwearable by their unfortunate owner.

Speaking of which, Peeta's enters my house with the familiarity that has grown in the last few months and which makes it worthwhile getting out of bed every morning. He smiles at me and bends down to tickle Bloody Buttercup, before turning his attention to me.

"Katniss, did you see the bag with the pile of clothes for Delly?" he asks casually. "I've been looking for it all over my house and was wondering whether I had brought it here and forgot all about it."

I cringe in guilt and my eyes dart towards the bag just as Peeta catches sight of it as well. "You know those pants that needed alterations?" I ask. He nods quizzically. "I ruined them," I explain with a gulp. "And the shirt that needed new buttons, and the socks with the holes in them, and the sweater…all ruined," I add, gnawing at my bottom lip and pointing helplessly to the bag and the very sorry looking clothes that I had stuffed in it.

Peeta eyes me carefully. "Did you do it on purpose?" he asks slowly. "Is there something I should know?"

I shake my head vehemently, disgusted at myself for any past behaviour that might have led to him believing me possible of something so callous and petty. "Of course not!" I exclaim. "I was trying to help, but…I can't sew. Not even a little bit," I confess sadly.

He frowns in confusion. "Then why - ?"

"Because I wanted to do something for you, because you're always taking care of me, and putting my needs first, and I wanted you to have nice looking pants, and I wanted to be the one to make them look good for you!" I reply, realising how silly all this was sounding, but trying hard to get my point across.

Peeta smiles softly, and very gently takes hold of my hand and squeezes it lightly. "It's very sweet of you, Katniss," he says, not letting go. "But you don't have to prove anything to me. I am here with you now because I want to, and because you make me happy. I don't need to receive back anything more than what you already give me."

"I don't give you anything back, Peeta" I reply sardonically. "And now I even managed to ruin a significant part of your wardrobe," I mutter in annoyance.

He grins and shrugs in mock resignation. "Let's not give up hope. I'm sure Delly will be able to do something to fix them," he quips. My face falls at the mention of Delly, and he frowns slightly as he tries to catch my eye. "Is there a problem with Delly?" he asks slowly.

I want to shake my head and say no, but his hand is still in mine, his gaze is locked with mine, and refusing to admit the truth to him stops being an option. "I want to be the one to do things for you," I admit sadly. "You and her share so much already, and now she's mending your clothes …" I trail off when I see the scowl forming in his face.

Peeta doesn't scowl. I thought it had been pretty established in our life that scowling was to be my prerogative. I guess he's not much impressed with my train of thought.

"Delly is my friend, Katniss. And she knows how to sew. Yes, we share a history, but so do you and –"

"Don't mention him," I snap. I'm not ready to think about Gale. Not now, not ever, if it were up to me. "You know that there is nothing left between us. I'm here with you, you know that!"

Peeta lets go off my hand and walks away to the kitchen, and leans on the counter, seemingly for support. It seems that he was not prepared for our conversation to take such a turn. He runs his fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath. "I know that there is nothing left between you two," he replies with a hint of anger in his voice. "But what if – if what happened had never taken place? What if he were still here in District 12? Would you be here now? With me?"

This is not fair. I was the one feeling insecure about Delly, and somehow the conversation turned right against me, with the mention of Gale. However, I do not hesitate to answer him. "Yes," I reply without a second thought. "It took me too long to realise it, Peeta, but it couldn't have been anyone but you. I can't explain it, but you just have to take my word for it. It's you, I promise".

He looks at me, into me, for a moment. And he believes me.

"It's the same for me," he whispers. "There is no Delly, there can never be any Delly. I love you, now and always."

I don't even wait for the terror or the guilt to take over, because I've known for weeks now that no trace of such emotions exists anymore when it comes to my feelings for Peeta. All I feel is pure joy as I run to him and bury myself in his warm embrace. "Even if I can't sew?" I asked with a grin, with my voice muffled into his shoulder.

"You can't cook either," he jokes, "and I don't care."

We find comfort in each other that night, even though a few more weeks pass before I am able to yield completely to the aching hunger that his warm lips generate in me. He never goes back to his house, and we find each other in our routine every day, and in our rest at night. I still dream of lost children and mutts, and he still stiffens and loses himself occasionally on particularly bad nights. Neither of us can sew, as Delly will continue to attest in the coming years, but together, but we become the seams that hold each other together, stitching each other's heart with a thread that somehow was crafted just for the two of us, and which, frayed and abused, refused to break.

Together, Peeta and I form a ragged seam that holds together our tortured souls.