It was nights like these that Peeta baked.
When the air was cool and calm, the crickets chirped in perfect harmony with the cicadas, and the sky was so clear it felt like every corner of the universe could be reached if they only thought to stretch up their hands. These were the nights that their small house felt like home.
As the twilight hours approached the windows would slowly inch open, encouraged by unseen fingers (though he knew just who had flicked the locks and urged open the shutters). He would pay no mind, simply line up the necessary ingredients – sugar, flour, baking powder, eggs, vanilla – in preparation for the late night. Then, when the sun finally dipped below the trees, he'd find himself lighting candles and turning over the coals, anything to keep the kitchen swathed in a soft orange glow.
She was the Girl on Fire, after all. The flickering light suited her.
He would bake until the warm scents of bread and cake and butter cream frosting infiltrated every corner of the cottage home they shared. The air, already thick and floral, would grow near intoxicating – and he wouldn't deny he felt a bit of a buzz during these hours.
Then, silently, discretely, as if he the world hinged on the night's perfect execution, he would nudge open the door to her bedroom and let the sweet odors waft in, drawn by the widow flung wide at her bedside.
A short time later, if he was lucky, the soft patter of footsteps would reach his ears and there she would be – bleary-eyed and yawning but every bit as dignified as when she held up her bow, ready to fire. She would smile distantly at him and perch upon the counter as he finished icing the cookies or pulled the last batch of bread from the oven. In the rare event that he was icing a cake she almost always trailed a thin finger through the frosting as soon as it was perfected, leaving him with another ten minutes of work as she watched, sucking the sugary substance from her skin.
The food would break the ice. She would relax her stiff posture as they picked at opposite ends of a loaf of bread, sometimes even letting a smile slip onto her usually-guarded face. She would ask how his day had been, as if she hadn't been there, as if she hadn't lived it with him.
And maybe she hadn't.
These days she spent most of her time in front of the bay windows in the living room, observing the panoramic view of the small forest she'd chosen as the site for their home. Sometimes she would even go out, bow and arrow sheath in tow, slinking along in her worn leather boots as if she had just slipped under the fence in the Seam. She seemed happy on these occasions, and when she returned there was a flicker of brightness in her eyes that reminded him of the fiery tribute he'd first met on the train.
At this point in the evening he could never tell how lucid she was (she knew how to disguise her drug-addled states well), and he wouldn't ask. Instead he would explain how he had spent the morning tending their small garden or sketching, the afternoon cooking and packing a meal for her to take the next morning, should she choose to go out, and the evening sprawled out by the fireside reading or trying to tease conversation out of her.
If she laughed she was almost always too far gone for the night to end well. It wouldn't be long before her medications kicked in and she was stumbling and half-asleep.
On these nights she wouldn't put up a fight. He would lead her up the staircase, one hand on her back to steady her and another at her elbow to guide. He would tuck her into bed and brush his fingers through his hair until she fell asleep again. Then he would crawl into his own bed, just down the hall, and pray for sleep.
But sometimes she would nod silently, as if she had known his answer before asking, and try to turn his attention to whatever he'd been working on. She'd ask about the flavors he'd picked for the cake batter or the mixture of spices in the rolls he'd just pulled from the oven. Anything, it seemed, to keep him talking. Anything to keep the conversation away from her.
Sometime between discussing alternate methods of dough preparation and the exact types of charcoals he'd used on his sketches that morning she would start inching closer to him. (He would tell himself that it was just the draft from the open windows; she was only cold.)
But soon she would be standing there next to him, every inch of her exposed arm pressed to his (leaning on him companionably, one might argue), still asking questions as if the warmth of her skin wasn't burning him. As if she wasn't posing the largest distraction known to man just by standing there, bumping against his shoulder.
And he'd missed that touch. Missed her gentle, calming fingers in the heat of the Games, brushing all his worries away. He only wished they could do the same now.
His arms would ache to snatch her up, stop her mid-sentence and bury his face in her neck. Let her hold him and whisper that it would all be okay. Promise him that when they woke she wouldn't need the tiny row of colored pills he lined up like ants for her on the counter each morning. Assure him that it wouldn't be that hard to come back, to forget the anxiety and depression and post-traumatic stress and reclaim even an ounce of her former fire.
Then, inevitably, she would begin the losing battle with her medication. Her eyelids would flutter and droop and he would fight alongside her, pulling out his most interesting stories in an attempt to maintain her attention.
But it wouldn't last. He would follow her up the stairs as the yawns came more frequently (touching was never a good idea when she was so present through the haze of sleeping aids), and he would tuck her into bed. If he was feeling brave, or maybe just melancholy enough, he might even venture a kiss on the smooth expanse of her forehead just before leaving her room.
He wondered if there was another option. A chance for her to beat the medication without fear of night terrors or panic attacks.
He hoped so.
Because if she could, if she did, then maybe he would let their arms burn against each other for a little longer (and if he leaned into her it would just be a gesture of comfort).
Maybe, if he was sure her mind was clear, he would even turn. Just a little. Just until he was facing her. And he would let his fingers trail from the point of her shoulder (she'd lost a lot of weight in the last months, there was a reason he was always baking sweets) to the plane of her palm as they longed to do.
She would refuse to meet his gaze, but he would catch her chin between his fingers and guide her eyes to his face. And he would wait, because she'd never been patient, and surely she would tear free of his hold.
Or she wouldn't.
And on that very rare and precious occasion he would lower his lips to hers. He would kiss her like they'd kissed only twice in the Games; once in the cave, and again on the sandy shore of an artificial beach. He would hold her gently and kiss her as if there was no pressure, no expectations; as if they were the only people sharing in the moment and the only people who would ever need to know.
They would be. And maybe she would kiss him back. Maybe, in the quiet cool of a summer night, surrounded by dozens of cookies and half-iced cakes she would admit that the strong and stoic Girl on Fire loved someone enough that she could allow her survival instincts to fade into the background and expose every scared and reluctant piece of herself.
Then, when her eyes began to close in languid bliss he would carry her up the stairs, slip her under the covers and tuck himself in beside her as they had so often done in the past. He would spend the night wrapped around her thin, strong body (and he would be all the medication she needed to keep the nightmares and anxious fits at bay).
Tonight he believed he'd uncovered the secret to this final scenario, and that was to bake cheese buns. With extra sharp cheddar cheese.
He had yet to witness a time when the biting aroma could not pull her from unconsciousness and into a remarkably coherent state of mind.
Trying to sound as if he wasn't worried about how much noise he made, he continued bustling around the kitchen. But always with a slight hesitation; he wanted to know the moment that she stepped from her bed.
He wasn't disappointed, somewhere between icing sugar cookies and pulling the cheese buns from the oven he paused in anticipation.
There was a muffled footstep on the stair.
A/N: I hope you all enjoyed. Of course I don't own The Hunger Games or any of the characters in this fic. I'd love to hear what you though, so drop me a comment and we can chat! Until next time, xoxo.