A/N: I know this has been done many times before, but this is my take on what happens after the final chapter of Mockingjay. Yesterday afternoon I read a quote from the book The Giving Tree and an idea popped in my mind. I just went with it.
Un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. This is my first HG fic, so I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games.
"…and she loved a little boy very, very much—even more than she loved herself."
—Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree
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It takes months to wake up from it all. Long, long months. Yes, her eyes have been open, and yes she's technically been awake. But no, she has not been present since returning to District 12.
She doesn't see him for a while.
She doesn't want to see him for a while. She needs the quiet, needs the space, needs the time to heal. If people are around her, she's given the opportunity to ruin them. Burn them. The Girl on Fire has done that far too many times in her short life, and she can't do it anymore. She needs to be by herself, totally alone.
Because if anyone deserves solitude from the world, it's her.
Solitude brings loneliness, and loneliness is what she gets. Besides the morning and night visits from Greasy Sae, it's just her and Buttercup. The damn cat is no company, but at least it provides some noise in her otherwise quiet house. The phone rings, but she makes no move to answer it; the door sounds, but she makes no move to open it. The only person she wants to call or knock on her door is gone.
Well, maybe not the only person.
She doesn't see him, but she certainly thinks of him.
.
.
.
After months of just lying in bed, she starts a new routine. She wakes up, actually gets out of her pajamas, splashes water on her face, and then goes downstairs to eat breakfast.
She also starts smiling. She really is appreciative of every meal Greasy Sae brings over, and she feels a pang of guilt when she realizes she's not uttered one word of thanks. So, she smiles.
It feels odd to curve her lips upwards, instead of downwards; she feels as if her mouth is a stiff hinge in need of oil. But each morning it gets easier, until finally, it becomes natural again. Her eyes begin to feel dry, instead of on the verge of tears constantly, and she finds herself humming old songs. She even braids her hair again, when the frayed ends are not so frayed anymore.
Every night is a burden, though. She wants nothing more than to slip easily into oblivion, sleeping until her sorrows ease from her shoulders. But the darkness seeps into her bones and her shadows bring back nightmares, and her slumber feels forever interrupted by nightmares.
Until one particular day, when the afternoon transforms into evening and her fear begins to build, she looks out her window. In the distance, she sees a landscape of green.
Her meadow.
She'd ignored the outside world far too long. Because she'd never realized that from her spot in Victor's Village, in her bedroom on the second floor, she could see her meadow. She can see where the grass ends and the woods begin, and in the distance can even see her lake. The landscape view takes her by surprise, and when her vision scans the gorgeous canvas of colors, her eyes stop suddenly on a tree. Even from her far-away spot she can see it.
In between the meadow and forest, in a wide clearing next to the lake, stands one lone tree. Its branches are bare and weak and it looks lost and lonely. But despite its circumstances, it still stands tall.
Like me, Katniss thinks.
A shrill of something buzzes through her blood. Something so foreign and unfamiliar, she doubts it's even there.
Hope.
.
.
.
Over the next few months, she watches that tree every day. She watches the final leaves fall in the autumn, and the snow cover it's branches in the winter. She watches its limbs sway when harsh winds curl through and threaten to topple it over.
She's relieved to find that as each season passes, they both remain strong.
.
.
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She doesn't know what day it is—Saturday, Tuesday, Thursday for all she knows—but she immediately knows it's the day. The day to wake up and smell the (prim)roses. She may not know the day of the week, but she does know its late March. The winter melts goodbye and the spring breezes a hello and the sun shyly peeks its way into the sky. It's been a long few months. The weather had mimicked her mood—gloomy, dark, inescapable. But she wakes up with an itch she can't ignore any longer.
She digs through her closet for her bow and arrows, and slips her dad's jacket over her shoulders. The smell of him still wafts from the leather, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she steps outside.
She moves at a stilted, but determined, pace. Her limbs haven't been stretched like this in months, but once she crawls past the fence border, she's back to her old stride. Her footsteps are nearly silent, her ears are on high alert, and her aim is dead on.
But before she catches anything, she heads to one place in particular.
Her tree is even more breathtaking up close. It towers over her, looming in size, but its branches are still inviting and enchanting. She wastes no time before climbing up its roots, scaling her way to a top branch and settling against the bark. She stays there for hours it seems, munching on nuts and berries and enjoying being in the fresh air again.
When the sun begins to set, she resists the temptation to stay and watch it disappear into the darkness. But she reluctantly climbs down and makes her way home.
She sees lights on in Peeta's house and smoke rising from the chimney.
Her heart constricts when she trudges on home.
.
.
.
"Hi."
"Hi."
He grins widely, unable to stop himself. He's just so happy that she's here.
It's been a few days since she started hunting again, and she'd finally decided that she needed to see him. Her first stop was to Haymitch, who was so drunk and out of it, he barely recognized her. After attempting to clean the place and give him a proper meal, she left him in peace and made her way to her final destination.
And now here she is. And now here he is.
She wants to know everything that's happened in his life since they returned. How he's recovering, how he's coping, and how he's moving on. But she doesn't know what to say, or where to start.
He helps her. (He always does that.)
"Would you like some cheesy buns? I made a batch this morning."
She mirrors his smile. "I'd love some."
They taste exactly as they did when he first made them for her; even better, actually, since it's been so long since she's had his baking. She'd had some in the Captiol, but they were never as good as Peeta's. He just makes everything better.
"I saw you went hunting this morning," he says, tearing into the buttery bun. "Did you catch anything good?"
She nods, swallowing her bite. "A few rabbits, a couple of squirrels."
He smiles proudly. "Maybe—" He stops himself for a beat, but then continues on. "Maybe we can make a stew for dinner?"
His tone is uneasy and very careful; he doesn't want to push her too fast.
She surprises him. "I'd like that," she answers, giving him a smile that eases his worried eyes. "Have you been speaking to Dr. Aurelius?"
"Yeah, once a week. He wishes you'd answer his call."
She sighs, guilt webbing across her chest. "I know. I will." She takes her last bite, then stands to bring her plate to the sink. "Maybe this afternoon I'll call him."
"Here I'll do the dishes," he says, jumping from his seat to take her plate. As his hand reaches to take it from her, his fingers brush her skin and she nearly drops the plate from the contact. Warmth runs through her body and she lets out a quiet gasp. She hasn't been touched by anyone in months. She hadn't realized how much she needed it—how much she needed someone close.
His scent invades her senses and this time, she does drop the plate. She barely recognizes the clatter it sounds as she turns to wrap her arms around him. He welcomes her embrace, tightening his hold of her immediately.
They're so close, so pressed against each other, they can feel each other's heartbeats.
She buries her nose in the crook of his neck and breathes in. "I missed you," she says in a thick voice, tears coating her throat. "I missed you so much."
"I missed you too," he whispers back, pressing his lips to her hair. "Please don't slip away from me again. I need you."
She nods against his shoulder, and whispers her promise to stay.
When she pulls away, finally, she looks in his eyes. Looks in his endless blue eyes, feels more grounded than she has in months, and admits at last, "I need you too."
.
.
.
They make dinner together that evening, and the next evening, and the next evening. Her nights continue to be fitful and terrible, but her days are comfortable and manageable. Enjoyable, even. They spend most of their time together, but still take random hours to themselves.
Peeta takes over for Greasy Sae and begins to cook them breakfast each morning. Katniss wakes to the aroma of bread and eggs, and slowly wanders over to his house. They'll sometimes take walks after cleaning the dishes, meandering into town for fresh air. The Mellark bakery had been in ruins when they'd returned—along, sadly, with his family— and a new one is slowly being rebuilt. She also stops to talk to old acquaintances.
She continues hunting every day, while he experiments recipes in his kitchen. When it rains one afternoon, and Peeta's elbow-deep in batter, she wanders up his stairs. At the end of the hallway she finds the place he escapes to some days—his studio. Every month, the train from the Capitol brings him a variety of canvases, brushes, and colors so he can paint. And he's certainly taken advantage of each.
The room is filled with both finished and unfinished pieces, and she realizes immediately that these aren't just any scenes. They're memories.
She and Peeta in the cave, on the beach, running from fire. Finnick swimming to him in the water, Portia admiring their costumes, Rue laying peacefully on the ground.
They're not all good, however. In one corner of the room lies painful paintings. Ones with harsh brushstrokes and dark colors and Peeta's nightmares strewn across. She finds them all overpowering and overwhelming and forces herself to look away.
Her eyes land on his current work-in-progress. Sitting in the center of his easel is a canvas with one image. Not a memory or nightmare, but just a simple object.
She would recognize it anywhere, since she's been gazing at it for months.
Her tree.
She hears Peeta walk up behind her, then feels him touch her shoulder. "When I looked out the window one day, my eyes immediately saw that tree. I don't know why, but it made me think of you."
She turns around to face him and captures his lips with hers. It's the first time they've kissed without cameras or threats or anybody watching, and she doesn't know why it's taken her so long to do it.
.
.
.
They have bad days still, even if they come less and less.
She wakes up to his screams. She'd been dozing in and out all night, and had finally fallen into a deep sleep. So when she hears his fearful shrieks, she nearly has a heart attack. Rushing out of bed, she stumbles downstairs, out the door, and across the yard. She doesn't remember grabbing his key, but it's thankfully in her hands as she unlocks his door. She's in his bedroom in moments, wrapping her body around his shivering one, and pressing her lips to his ear. His face gleams with sweat and tears, and his frightened whimpers nearly bring cries of her own.
"Shh," she hushes, smoothing back his hair. "Not real, not real, not real," she repeats. "Not real, not real, not real."
It takes a few minutes, but his tremors finally stop and he's left lying exhausted and worn out.
She spends that night in his bed, curled around his body. They sleep more soundly than they have in months, and after they wake, she decides to bring him to her tree. She wants him to paint it up close.
It's the best day they have in years.
.
.
.
The worst (in a while) happens when a storm rolls through. When she arrives at her tree, she finds some of its braches scattered on the ground. The pieces look splintered and sharp and her perfect, blooming tree looks broken.
But, of course, Peeta finds a way to make it better.
"Look," he says, running his finger over a lightened part of her cheek. "It has scars like us now."
She kisses him for that.
And when he gathers and brings the broken pieces of wood home—so they aren't left forgotten in the wind—she starts to feel the need to say those three little words to him.
.
.
.
Time passes. The bakery opens and thrives. Katniss hunts and helps feed their ever-growing town.
For his birthday, Katniss plants a tree for Peeta next to hers. It's comforting to know that, just like in real life, her roots will weave through his forever.
.
.
.
He doesn't ask her to spend the rest of her life with him, because they both know that's inevitable. And he doesn't ask her to stay with him until the day he dies, because they know they've been close to that and she has stayed with him.
Instead, he asks another question.
"Will you be my wife?"
Because there's something more significant with her being his wife, and he being her husband. It binds them in a way no other promise can. It symbolizes that they belong to each other, equally, and are the only owners of each other's hearts.
He asks it after they've picnicked under the shade, when she's resting her head in his lap. His fingers are softly tracing the lines of her face, mapping each angle and dip of her beautiful structure.
At his question, she opens her eyes and sits up. He brings his hand to her cheek, brings his thumb across her skin, and repeats the question.
"Yes," she answers, without even thinking about it for a second. Part of her is surprised he's even asking, as their commitment to each other was never a question. But the other part wonders how and why he's waited so long.
After giggling into his mouth and kissing the life out of him, she pulls away. And it's only then does she notice what he's carved into the bark of her tree.
Inside a heart:
K + P
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Not wanting to wait any longer, they decided that night's the night.
While Peeta showers and changes, Katniss picks some primroses from their garden and bundles them in a bunch. He bakes bread while she gets ready, taking his time with every ingredient and whisk stroke. He pours his heart and soul into this batch, knowing it's the most significant loaf he'll ever make.
When she walks down the stairs, his breath catches. Her hair is braided intricately, her cheeks are blushed and pink, and she's wearing a dress Cinna made years ago. She's glowing.
He takes her hand, gives it a gentle squeeze, and leads her to the fireplace.
Then, using the broken pieces of wood he'd gathered and brought home from their tree months before, they build a fire.
They toast to a marriage filled with love, understanding, forgiveness, protection, and commitment.
Love of one another. Understanding of one's flaws. Forgiveness of one's past. Protection from all harm. And a commitment to stay with one other until the end of time.
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.
.
They take their time.
They're both nervous and anxious and relieved that this is finally happening. But they both know that as husband and wife, how momentous the act is—how sacred is it, how powerful it is—and they're going to respect the sanctity of it.
She shivers when he unbuttons her dress, carefully pushing it off her shoulders before placing his lips on her skin. Next come her bra and underwear. She's soon aware that she's the only one without clothes, and instead of feeling embarrassed and shameful of her scarred body, she feels womanly and wanted. The way he gazes at her body takes her breath away, and her need for him grows even more.
She kisses him again, and lets him move his hands up her body. His hands shake and tremble as they glide across her skin, testing and experimenting. But he soon unearths her weak spots. The spots that make her moan and whimper and gasp out his name like a prayer.
When he feels an impatient tugging on his shirt, he leans away to pull it off. Once his pants and undergarments follow, they just stare at each other for a moment. His hair is mussed from her hands, her lips are swollen from kissing, and their chests heave with want. They both lean together and meet in the middle, kissing once before Peeta guides her to lie down.
Once she's back against the pillows, she reaches between them and wraps her hand around him. She doesn't know what she's doing, or how to continue, but it's comforting to know that he doesn't either. So she does what feels right, with his stilted breath and soft groans fueling her fire. The lust pooling in her core is buzzing throughout her blood, and she begins to feel an overwhelming need for him now.
"Peeta," she sighs, feeling him sweep the source of her need.
From there, it's a tangle of limbs and kisses, a chorus of sighs and gasps, and a night of releases and I love yous. Their lips explore each other until no piece of skin is left un-kissed. The closeness and warmth they find is addicting, and they repeat the cycle until their eyes can't bear to stay open any longer. They have a lifetime of this.
.
.
.
It takes fifteen years for her to agree to children.
They're sitting against the stump of her tree, side by side, with her head resting on his shoulder. It's a perfect day; the sun is warm, the birds chirp with the wind, and she's sitting beside the only person who makes her life make sense.
"Let's do it," she whispers.
She looks up at him, watches his eyes open.
He smirks. "Do what?"
"Have a baby."
He looks positively stunned, but she doesn't fail to notice the way his eyes become even bluer than their original hue.
"What?" he gasps.
She repeats herself, putting more confidence into the words this time. "Let's have a baby." She leans in to kiss him softly and laughs when he doesn't fully return the kiss. "Peeta," she says, nudging his nose with her own. She skirts her lips across his cheek and brings them to his ear. "Make a baby with me."
His lips capture hers in an instant, and she tastes the salt of his tears in the kiss. "I love you," he murmurs into her mouth, before kissing her soundly again and smiling as she echos the words back.
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.
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Years later, they bring back their little girl and boy. By now Peeta's tree has grown past the ground, slowly making its way towards the sky and the original tree's height. But both provide the perfect amount of shade for a family picnic, something that happens every Sunday.
From her spot under the cool shelter, Katniss watches as Willow—named for the tree with healing powers—runs away from Peeta, giggling with each step she takes. Her blonde braid sways as she bounces around, before finally getting caught by her daddy. He smacks a kiss on her cheek before tickling her side and carrying her back to the blanket. Katniss laughs at them both, before stealing a look at the sleeping boy cuddled in her arms.
When Peeta settles Willow with a book and snack, he looks over at Katniss. Kissing her softly, she winks and hands him the tool.
Beneath their own, he carefully carves their children's initials into the bark, and then turns to plant two seeds into the ground. One for each child.
They'll never see all four trees at their highest points, but it's a happy thought to think they'll all be rooted together for eternity. A far cry from the lone tree that first stood. The tree that brought her back to the boy—and the boy who brought her back to life.
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end.
A/N: I love hearing what my readers think :) Reviews are welcomed and appreciated.