A/N: Just a quick little one-shot that came to me over a cup of warm tea on this cold night. It depicts the first conversation Peeta and Katniss have after the birth of their first child - it could be classified as "dark fluff" if that makes sense. It's rated M for mentions of suicide and brief descriptions of the sexual nature. I apologize for any thing that deviates from canon without my realization and of course it should go without saying that I don't own these characters - Suzanne Collins does. The lyric below belongs to The Long Winters song "Cinnamon." It hasn't even been proofread much, so read at your own risk.

I said, "Her skin is cinnamon,"

I don't quite understand the depths of my depravity until the first time I watch Peeta holding our child.

Until that moment I had convinced myself that the blame for everything that was dark and twisted about me could be laid completely at the feet of the Capitol. I was mistrusting because of them. I was cold because of them. I had a hard time enjoying anything because of them. I suppose I could explain the surge of possessiveness I feel as Peeta cradles her in his big strong arms as being their fault too. After all, I had become possessive out of necessity. Things were always taken from me, so I had to hold fast to the scraps I was given. That was the Capitol's fault.

Still, when a mother looks at the scene of her newborn daughter being fawned over by its doting father and feels a deep gush of jealousy, it has to be the kind of darkness that goes so deep that it's just natural. I should feel pride, love, joy. A whole host of other sugary emotions. And it's not that some of them aren't there. It's just that overriding all of that, there's that jealousy brought on by a realization that I never thought would rock me to my core.

There's a now a person on earth that Peeta Mellark loves more than he loves me.

He looks up at me through his lashes, the same big grin he'd been giving our daughter still shining so brightly that it takes more than his mouth to illustrate it. The grin is in his dewy eyes too. It falters only a little when his gaze catches mine. He's noted the grim look I must be sporting.

"You look a little green over there, darling…envious?" My stomach plunges a little, ashamed he's been able to read me so easily. He's developed the uncanny ability of always being able to guess exactly what I'm thinking. I'd decided a long time back that it's a mixture of our shared experience and the fondness he seems to have for just gazing at me all day long "…don't worry, I won't completely turn her into a Daddy's girl. I'll share her with you."

He winks, and makes his way back toward the bed to place the little squirming bundle back in my arms.

Naturally good, sweet, precious Peeta thinks that the look he sees in my eyes is a feminine protectiveness of my newborn offspring. He's brought her back and planted her in my arms. Standing back to look at us, he bites his lip. The grin has taken him over to the point he literally has to bite himself to contain his joy. If I weren't so mad at myself, I would laugh at his quirkiness. Possibly even sarcastically tease him.

"My girls," he breathes out on the softest, happiest little sigh I've ever heard. It's such a lovely sound. It makes me want to scream.

Not at him. Not at the pink little bun on my chest. At myself. I hate myself for being this messed up. For ruining what should be one of the few luxuries of happiness I have left. I'm a new mother. I've brought new life into this world. I've made Peeta happier than he's possibly ever been. And I can't enjoy it. Not fully. I wonder if I'm meant to ever truly enjoy anything again.

I burst out in hot angry tears which give way to choking sobs.

Peeta picks up that these are no little tears of joy. Not even a big emotional display of joy. Joy is far from my pool of emotions right now, and apparently that means I should be as far away from Daddy's little girl right now as I possibly can be. He rushes back to the bed side and extracts her from my grasp. There's a part of me that wants to fight him. I do love this little baby, and there's the instinct to clutch her and hide her under me. Roar like a mother lioness. Still, I know that with my foulness the thing she needs protecting from the most is probably me.

Am I true danger to her? Will this ugly feeling I have at now having to share my one comfort, my flower of hope, with another girl grow? What if when she gets older I'm one of those strange women who is so jealous of her daughter that she starts getting drunk and accusing her of enticing her father's attention for some repulsive purpose? I'll probably take it even further, accuse him of having similar gross intentions toward her and elevate to striking him. Poor Peeta, doomed to live out his childhood horrors all over.

Maybe he'll be smart enough to pack her up and leave with her when it all starts. He's perceptive enough to take her out of the room now. He'll be her protector. He won't let me fuck her up. Underneath it all, I'm appreciative for that. He's a good father. At least she has one good parent. She. I haven't even got the sense to bottle my crazy until we've given her a proper name. We've flitted over several combos. Thousands probably. Neither of us sleep very well anymore, and our insomnia makes time for lots of talk.

Now I'll even lose those valued minutes with him. We both owe our up all night time to her.

A hot gurgle of resentment, a cool pang of self-loathing.

Just when I'm thinking the room is so crowded with all my thoughts that it's suffocating, Peeta proves there's still an inch of room left when he eases back in. He no longer holds our daughter. Instead he's clutching a steaming mug. It's hot chocolate. I smell it on the air and it mingles with Peeta's trademark baking related scent. Today it's cinnamon. He'd been just covering thick unbaked loaves of spiced cranberry bread for rising when my water had broken. I know if I clasped his big hand to my face and inhaled, it would be just like sniffing a fresh clove.

"I brought you a nice, warm pick-me-up…." he offers presenting the cocoa. I wipe my face with the sheets and hold out my shaking hands for the cup. Peeta knows better than to just chunk it over. He carefully laces my trembling fingers around the handle and forces the other hand to cup around the base. Even when they're perfectly in place, he doesn't let go of his own grasp on the mug. He gingerly leads it to my lips. I barely get a taste of chocolate before my body is shaking with my weeping again. He's so good at taking care of me, and it just further reminds me that there's another person who will have his care and attention like this from now on. Which reminds me that I'm a soulless bitch for being upset of that fact. It's a vicious cycle.

"Careful," he warns, moving the hot liquid from my mouth and out of the danger zone "I don't want you to survive childbirth and strangle on hot milk and melted fudge." Naturally the powdered stuff hadn't been good enough for the mother of his new baby. I bury my face in my new freed and now warm hands. "Katniss, I'm sorry…I didn't mean to be morbid-"

How could he possibly think that the queen of mocking would find his light-hearted joke too edgy? I uncover my face, taking in a stilling and shuddering breath. I hate crying like this. It doesn't solve anything, and it's definitely only spoiling things for Peeta who has some hope of finding the appropriate measure of delight from all of this.

"No…I'm just tired…hormonal…sore-" I start listing off all the emotions that would be proper to be bogging me down just now.

"-just making up excuses and masking your real feelings." He lifts his fair brow, having effectively silenced my spluttering. "So, how about you make good on an old promise, and be honest with me."

It's actually a promise I've been forced to make to him several times. I'm not so good about holding up my end of the bargain when it comes to the whole sharing thing.

"Wait…where did you put her?" It's only partly evading his question. It really did suddenly strike me that he left the room with our daughter and came back without her. I know Haymitch had been in the make-shift waiting area of our living room. Surely he hasn't entrusted our bundle of joy to him. I know he's as good as Peeta's father in a lot of ways, but he might very well lose track of a newborn in the midst of celebratory shots.

"She's bonding with her grandmother…don't worry…she's safe…and Haymitch gave his approval between swigs of the sherry Johanna sent last week." It makes sense that I'd almost completely forgotten my mother was here. Even though she'd shown up on our doorstep a couple weeks ago to help me in the last stages of pregnancy and with the birth, it doesn't seem like we've exchanged but a handful of words. I generally operate as if she isn't hovering.

"That bottle was supposed to be a congratulatory gift for us…" I don't really care at all, but this derails our previous discussion.

"And a nice gift for an expectant mother it was…but it's in hands fit to take care of it properly now…as is our daughter….and as are you…" Peeta stretches his arms around me, and I go willingly into his embrace and lay my head against his chest. Not only is this one of my favorite positions, but it's also a good way to avoid looking in his eyes. If he's going to force me to share the ugly with him, I can't watch those big childlike eyes while I do it.

He presses a warm kiss to my forehead, one set of his fingers fiddling affectionately with my mussed hair. My husband is tenderly waiting for his cold and distant wife to throw him a morsel of the same earnesty he affords her, and all the while he's trying to soothe her. The next words out of my mouth should be me detailing how he should pack up their daughter and get far away from me now.

"I'm a terrible mother."

Peeta laughs. That makes me grumpy, and I send a scowl up at him to let him know it's not the time for humor.

"I'm sorry…but you have to admit that you're judging your mothering skills a little soon…you've barely been one for an hour…" he offers.

"It took me a lot less time than for me to figure out you had absolutely no skills at hunting or tracking" I counter.

"Fair enough," he acquiesces "though I would defend myself by saying I was in a life or death situation…the biggest hurdle you're facing my love is possibility of spit up and teething."

"It's a lot more complicated than all that and you know it…especially for me…" I take a deep breath "I'm warped Peeta…warped beyond repair and it's been one thing to inflict that upon you all these years…but forcing it on a baby?"

"I think this is probably the hundredth time we've had this conversation since we found out you were pregnant…but I'm a patient man and if you want to rehash, I've got time…" He has the nerve to give me a fond look as he brushes stray hair from face, which is still a little sweaty.

I was going to beat around the bush more for his sake. Prepare him before I just dropped a disgusting bomb on him, but no. I think I'll just aim it right at that fond little smirk.

"I'm jealous of her…okay? There's a part of me, I'm not sure exactly how large it is and that's the most terrifying thing…that's jealous to the point of being sick of my infant daughter" I growl "That was the emotion I was feeling while I should be picking her name or coyly fighting over who she looks more like…not love…jealousy."

He doesn't look as rocked or shaken as I wanted him to. He purses his lips, pondering briefly before he speaks again.

"It's only natural to envy her ignorant bliss Katniss…to feel sort of slighted that she will get to grow up in a world without the games…a world that though touched by the former regime's treachery will be infinitely better than what we got serve-" I realize that he's went way off track with his assumptions. He's taken my simple bitterness and constructed a much more elaborate reason for my discontent. If he would just wake up and realize I'm not some fancy, complicated type of distorted – just plain ol' fucked up. "…are you even still listening to me?"

I hadn't been. I'd missed a great deal at the end of his speech once I saw where he was going.

"No…just waiting for the opportunity to tell you that you're wrong."

"Ah, marriage."

"Stop being cute and clever…I'm trying to warn you," I insist and get ready to unload the last of it "I'm not jealous of her escaping the lives we had…I'm glad for that more than anything else. Though I would argue that she'll never be free of the games until she's free of me-"

"Katniss-"

"No…just listen…please" I'm crying again now "when I watched you with her…I was jealous. All I could think about was that you're mine, not hers. You…you've never loved anyone as much as you love me…and that's petty to say out loud…but I don't care because I have to spell it out and make you understand how disgusting I am…" My heart is racing "You're the thing I can't survive without…and now I'm relegated to having just a part of you... and it made me angry."

He does look confused and shocked now. I don't look for the deeper meaning in those looks. Who wants to look on as someone realizes their power of your imperfection?

"You're realizing how problematic that is for me as a Mommy…huh?" I accuse "seeing all the damage I stand to do to this child…I can't even stand the thought of sharing my sunshine with it and you're supposed to trust me to put my life on the line for her?"

"I'll never trust anyone like I trust you…" he says quietly, "and I'll definitely never love anyone the way I love you."

"But the baby needs-"

"To be loved in a much different way than I love you…so there's never going to be a chance of anyone taking your place in my heart in that way…" He leans forward and presses a kiss on my forehead that's so tender and reverent that it reminds me of the way I would kiss Prim on her newborn forehead. She'd been the most important thing in my world, which makes me feel as if that's what Peeta's telling me with this kiss

"I love our daughter with everything that I am is because she's an extension of you…" His lips still linger over the lines of my forehead, words stroking my skin like a butterfly's soft wing "I was probably always meant to be a good father, because I had a pretty good one myself…but I know the only reason I can love that little girl as much as I already do is because she's yours. A piece of your heart."

I take a heavy breath. "Sometimes I wonder if it's still there."

"It is. I feel it." He moves his hand to cover the thudding right over my chest, but I know he doesn't mean just the physical beating. If Peeta says he can feel that my heart is still intact, I'll trust him. I have to. He's always understood it better than me.

"I'm…I'm still worried about feeling this way…it might stroke your ego for me to admit how much I need you…" I accused, eyes beginning to dry as I cast a cutting glance up at him noticing he looks a little smug for my liking "but it doesn't change the fact that it's not right…it's not the selfless kind of mother a child needs."

"We'll learn to be what she needs together…we grew back to each other and we can grow into parents together." He sounds so sure. It's unnerving.

"You can't be so certain-"

"I never said I was certain Katniss…"

"But you are…you have been this whole time….it's always been about decorating, and naming, and remembering lullabies with you…about sketching pictures of me at different stages of pregnancy and journaling about every kick…" It's all suddenly coming to me just how into it and prepared he's been all along "You've never had to be like me…burdened with the worry that you were going to ruin this child."

I've turned the moment from an emotional conversation into an argument. A one-sided one at least, because when Peeta speaks next he's not shouting. Though with the way his admission shocks me, he might as well have been screaming bloody murder.

"I've thought about killing myself at least a dozen times since you found out you were pregnant."

It shocks all the breath out of me.

I haven't heard things so dark come out of Peeta's mouth since those first few weeks he showed up in District 13 all those years ago. Not unless he's having a spell, and those are somehow so surreal that I separate them from normal reality. He sweats. He screams. He's thrown things. By the time he's even uttering anything coherent, he's usually on the floor in the fetal position. He's never uttered anything as dark as this unless he was doubled over with the pain of his affliction. For the first time in years, I feel the lingering pain of his fingers on my throat, stopping my breath.

But the admittance that Peeta has again thought about killing himself hurts even more than when he tried to kill me.

"Peeta," When I do speak, it's only his name I can force out and I'm not sure what it's meant as. An admonishment. A question. A plea. A prayer for him to take it back.

"I even got as far as trying once…" he goes on, oblivious to the fact I don't think I can handle much more "You were asleep…I was laying by the fire with you…my arm was around you and my hand was on the stomach you were just starting to get…both of your arms were clutching mine…and it was one of those minutes I realized just how much you trusted me."

I give a half smile through my terrified tears, because even though he's going to a dark place with this story the scene he's painted is a nice one, and I remember that day. We'd finally told people about the pregnancy, and then of course retreated to our own solace. For the first time in a long time, as I'd looked into the face of burning fire, I'd felt so safe with his arm around me. As if the world could burn, and as long as Peeta was holding me there was no way I'd burn with it.

"With the weight of your trust…I stopped trusting myself…and that's when an episode hit," He whispered "it…it was the first one I remembered facing without you there to help…and I was terrified" I'm shocked. Over the years, I've often felt it was almost worse for me to be there, as I was the object of the torture they used against Peeta to cause this sickness. I can't deny though that more often than not he's weaned back into lucidity by the feel of my hands on his face, my song in his ears. "I untangled myself from you…went outside...tore up the firepit…chucked one of the bricks at Haymitch's geese."

The picture of him hurling bricks at Haymitch's loud pack of geese would be almost comical if not for his tone and my understanding of what he meant. The frenzy had been powerful enough that he'd had the urge to kill.

"Did you-"

"No…I didn't hurt any of them," he says on a relieved sigh. That's my husband. Afraid to even bring harm to the very same animals that our mentor regularly harvests himself for special dinners.

"So, you tried to hurt yourself instead…" I reason, piecing it together. It's not uncommon for his rage in these moments to turn inward. When confusion mingles with anger, the easiest person for Peeta is lash out at is himself.

Peeta shakes his head slowly though, denying my rationalization its merit. "No…the fresh air seemed to calm me down pretty quick and I started counting blades of grass until I remembered what was real…and after I'd laid there for about twenty minutes and let my head clear…that's when I started planning.."

"I don't want to hear-"

"You have to," he insists and keeps going "I got up and brushed off…checked on you by the fire…then I got out a pen and paper…wrote you a note. It only took about five minutes…but somehow it was like six pages long…telling you how to carry on without me…why I had to do it…why it was the only way. Why it was better. I think it took so long because I know you well enough that it was almost like I was arguing with you through my words…"

I burrow into his shoulder, refusing to even see the humor in that.

"I was so sure I was doing the right thing…a kid deserves more than a father who could lose control at any second and kill a bunch of geese…or burn the house down…scream or strike out at her mother…or good forbid when she got older, that I see you in her eyes when I'm having a spell and her being there confusing me more and I-"

"That's not you when you get like that Peeta…it's them…it's what they did to you…it's no different than your leg-"

"I don't think there's a danger of my prosthetic going psycho and choking anyone, is there?" he demands and I'm quiet, chastened.

"I left the note on the table and I got out that bottle of tonic you'd gotten to take care of the field rat problem in the cellar…boiled it with some sleeping pills and filled a canteen with it and strapped it to my side after I put my stuff for hiking on…I planned to hike far enough up stream that it would take even you days to find me afterward…didn't bring any food because being weaker would only make it quicker once I drank it. I was all ready…I told you goodbye and I kissed you on the cheek…"

I'm crying harder now than I was earlier, just with less sound.

"Wh…what stopped you?" I ask, out of desperation to know what or who I need to thank for the fact that Peeta is still her, warm and in the bed cradling me and not poisoned and buried under the cold earth. Had Greasy or Haymitch dropped by at the right moment? Had Delly called? Did he catch sight of the picture of Gale on the hearth, with his two sons hanging from his tricep?

"You woke up…" he said as if it was obvious. "When I was crouching and going in for just one last kiss, you woke up and kissed me back…"

I remember more clearly now. It had been at the stage of the pregnancy when hormones were kicking in. Waking up to a crackling fire and Peeta kissing me had consumed my senses. I hadn't even thought to ask why he'd been dressed more warmly than before, or in his boots strapped with a canteen.

All that had been tugged away quickly in my hunger for him.

"So was that sex so incredible because it was meant to be goodbye sex?"

He finally laughs a little again. "No…that sex was so good for you because you were drunk on baby hormones…it was so good for me for the same reason it always is…because it reminded me I was alive. And I knew I wanted to stay that way."

"Do you need me?" He had demanded over and over as he pumped into me with more force than he had since we'd found out I was expecting. I was wild with it, egged on by his recklessness. I was too busy digging my heels into his back and meeting him thrust for thrust to answer him at first. When I finally did, it was a broken moan of "More than anything.."

I'd meant inside me. Deeper, harder, closer. I'd hoped my answer would keep us going all evening.

"Then I'm not going anywhere."

I realize now that my need hadn't just kept us making love until well after the sun had went down. It had kept Peeta with me until this very moment. Alive.

He sees it dawning on me.

"You're scared of how much you need me…when the way you need me has been all that's kept me breathing more than once," Peeta puts my realization in words.

We're broken shards.

Our fucked up puzzle pieces fit together though. Maybe they don't quite make us whole, but they fit as one snugly enough that we're more than just ruins on the floor.

"It wasn't the last time I thought about it…my mind would wander there briefly any time after an attack…or a nightmare….but it never got that far again. You were always close by…needing me."

"I'll always need you…" I promise, the truth being easier to admit now that I knew how much it meant to him "so you can't go anywhere…ever…because I'm always going to need you…and now she needs you too…even more than me."

We both just look at each other, faces pressed close as I realize we've come full circle. I'm now basically begging him to care about our daughter more than me if it's enough to keep him sane. Great. Now I'm using her as a bargaining chip.

"And you're always going to be what keeps me breathing, Katniss." He kisses my lips this time, and it's so pure that I feel silly for ever worrying that something could overshadow this feeling. Our child will only deepen this bond. The heart I was worrying I didn't have earlier suddenly contracts with need for her to be closer.

"Peeta-"

"I'll go get her," he breathes against my mouth, but before he can move I hear someone clear their throat and we look over to see Haymitch has our daughter carefully balanced in one arm. I survey quickly and note the other hand is surprisingly free of a bottle.

"Well, sweetheart...it looks like they're already fast at work on a sibling" he says looking down at her, then shooting back at us "you know there's a supposed to be a six week hiatus on…all that."

I ignore his quips, and stretch out my arms for my child suddenly possessive of her. Haymitch reads me, and soon she's settled in between the two of us.

"Cinnamon," I finally say, running my thumb under her chin.

"That smell's from the bread…do you want some-"

"No…I mean that's her…that's our daughter…Cinnamon."

"After Cinna? I thought we decided-" We'd decided long ago that despite the urge, we'd never hang the name of a fallen friend or family member on our child. We didn't need memories staring back at us in the eyes of our children, and they didn't need ghosts weighing them down even in their names.

"No…not after Cinna…" Though I can't deny that as I look at her, I feel as if I've finally made something so beautiful that even the master of it would be proud. "Whenever I smell you I feel safe…and more than anything I just want to make her feel safe…and today you smell like cinnamon…so that's her name. Cinnamon."

Peeta smiles and I know he's probably thankful it wasn't cheese buns he'd baked today.

"You look like you'd like to hold her again…" I tease my jealousy and my guilt over the jealousy having faded after our understanding. Now my reluctance at handing her over to her father is borne of a new sense of possession. The one I feel over her. I know Peeta feels it too though, and I can see his arms are itching.

"You're right…I do want to hold her again…I'm never going to get tired of holding her."

Before I can place the babe in his arms, Peeta settles into the pillows and slides his arms around me, encasing my weak body with both his legs and arm.

He traces an arrow shaped pattern on my arm, one of his thousand little signs of endearment that have developed over the last decade, and then pads the same finger over our daughter's bow shaped mouth.

I don't think of myself as any less depraved, but once again I'm lulled by the possibility of happiness.