Christmas Miracle
A/N – I plan to weave this story into my other fic, Phoenix Rising, but the Christmas season kept pushing this story to the forefront this week. It seems it was meant to be published a bit early. I hope my other readers will forgive me, but I'm assuming you all knew this part was coming anyway. ;)
I do not own the Hunger Games!
The snow is falling softly outside the living room window. The fat, fluffy flakes fall like feathers in the soft glow of the lamp lights in the courtyard before landing on the walkway that Peeta and I shoveled after the blizzard that pummeled the District only two weeks ago. I can't say that I've ever been a fan of the snow until now. Winter in the Seam was a struggle. It meant cold, wet hours spent wading through snow up to my thighs to check the trap line with Gale and splitting the meager results between us. The cold winds snuck into the drafty house at night, freezing the water in the kettle that hung in the fireplace.
"It's coming down pretty hard out there," I whisper into Peeta's ear. I am laying in the crook of his arm in a nest of blankets and furs that we threw on the floor in front of the fireplace in the living room of our snug house in the Victor's Village a few hours ago. He rolls from his back and onto me to look out the window, his bare chest pressed against my breasts. I feel my body respond to his, the heat pooling in my centre, eager for his touch again. I place a soft kiss on his breastbone and slide the inside of my thigh up his leg. "Maybe we'll get snowed in again."
His blue gaze is directed on me now, amused. He lifts one eyebrow. "I'm not sure anyone gets that lucky twice in the same winter." He kisses me tenderly. "The same lifetime."
With a swiftness I never expect because of his leg, Peeta slips his arms around me and rolls so that I am on top of him. I straddle his hips and rest my chin the arm that is folded across his chest. The contours of his face are sharp in the firelight and I trace them lazily with my finger. We are already comfortable with this new level of intimacy; the natural result, I suppose, of two souls who have always recognized each other. I feel the blankets slide down around my waist. Peeta scratches his nails gently down my back and I arch into it. His gaze follows my breasts as I sit up. I can feel him, already hard and ready against my most sensitive parts.
"I don't know, Mellark," I say, as I rise up to slip him inside me. "You've been getting pretty lucky lately." I slide down his shaft slowly, taking him into me, bit by bit, using my muscles to grip and release him over and over before finally settling in his lap.
He groans. "Katniss, you're getting way too good at that." I chuckle and bend down to kiss him, but he meets me halfway; sliding his hand up my torso to my breast. He flicks his thumb over my nipple, which hardens at his touch. He swirls his tongue around the pink tip before drawing it into his mouth and grazing it with his teeth the way I like. I bury my fingers into his hair to hold him there and begin to ride. He finally falls back into the blankets, gasping, and gripping my hips to support them as they continue to piston up and down.
I am lost. I am only feeling, only heat. He is hot and hard inside me and the pressure is building. With my eyes on Peeta, I put two fingers into my mouth and suck them slowly. Then I trail them down my body to the throbbing pulse between my legs, toward the the button that is begging for attention. I watch his eyes kindle with understanding and then flare when my fingers reach their destination. I have never performed this intimate act in front of him before. Empowered by his reaction, I throw my head back. My breath shallows as I continue to touch myself while riding us both to the breaking point. My other hand is fisted in my hair. I am lost in my own pleasure while seeing to his, little moans of ecstasy escaping my lips. Faster. Harder. Almost there.
Finally, the wave I've been attempting to catch crashes over me and I cry out, "Peeta!" He is bucking beneath me now and we are both lost to sensation before he finally joins me on the other side.
I fall towards him, burying my face in his neck. He runs his hand down my back as he tries to catch his breath. "That has got to be the sexiest thing I've ever seen," he murmers. "And I've seen Johanna Mason get naked in an elevator." I can feel him grinning into my shoulder.
"Well, I saw Finnick Odair in his underwear," I reply, and start licking and kissing my way to his ear in the way I know he loves. "Are you sure we aren't due for another blizzard?" I whisper huskily into his ear. He chuckles, which sounds like a low rumble in the aftermath of our lovemaking.
"Doesn't matter. I'd already decided not to open the bakery tomorrow," he tells me. I look up and grin at him wickedly. "Don't get so excited. We need to go get our Christmas tree tomorrow."
This surprises me. Like birthdays, Christmas in District 12 was really only for those who could afford it before the rebellion. Most of the merchant families like Peeta's would celebrate with a nice meal and an exchange of modest gifts, very few would have bothered with a tree. Peeta sees that I'm about to protest and places his finger over my lips.
"Please, Katniss, I need to do this. Christmas was important in my family. I have some very clear, very happy memories of it and I want to make new ones with you."
I know then that there can be no argument. Peeta's natural memories are exceedingly precious after his torment at Snow's hands. And so, the next morning, I am trudging through the woods behind our house with Peeta on his quest for the perfect Christmas tree. He has slung an axe over his shoulder and I have my bow over mine, just in case we meet some hungry wildlife. I know there's no chance of hunting. Peeta's just too noisy in the woods. Each tree we see that might be acceptable gets examined from all sides for fullness. Finally, he finds a pine that he judges to be suitable and with several swift chops fells it to the ground. We drag it back to the house, where Peeta fussily trims and shapes it in the backyard, and then cuts the lowest branches from the trunk. He nails a couple of boards to the bottom as a stand and we shove it through the back door.
The woodsy scent of the tree fills the kitchen. The snow on its branches is rapidly melting onto the floor and needles are everywhere. The mess doesn't seem to bother Peeta. He grabs a few old towels from the bathroom off the kitchen and throws them on the floor to soak up the water.
"Now what?" I ask. Peeta can tell I'm tired and annoyed, but he's used to that and so he ignores the tone.
"Popcorn," he replies, and laughs at my perplexed face. He quickly takes off his boots and outdoor gear and then he slaps a pot onto the stove. He covers the bottom of the pot in oil and lights a fire under it while he digs through the pantry looking for popcorn. The dry kernels sizzle when they strike the oil in the pot. Peeta quickly puts a cover on the pot and shakes it over the heat. Soon the kernels start to snap into balls of fluff and the unmistakable, mouthwatering odor of popcorn is added to the pine-scented air.
"So, we're just going to make a big mess and then sit around eating popcorn?"
Peeta doesn't answer. The popping sound has slowed and Peeta is focused on quickly dumping the corn into a bowl. I try to dig in. "No, no, no." He throws his hands over the popcorn. "This is for the tree."
Like a lightning bolt from the past, a long-forgotten memory of my mother and her merchant class childhood surfaces. "You want to string it! My mother told me she did this with her parents one year when they had a Christmas tree."
Soon, we are both seated by the fire. I have pulled some thread and needles out of my mother's old sewing basket and we're alternately feeding each other popcorn and threading it on the string. While we work, Peeta tells me stories of his childhood Christmases – handmade gifts and decorations, busy days in the bakery, and a delicious meal on Christmas Day. I sit quietly and listen while I work on my popcorn strings, knowing all of this is good for him. We eat a light dinner and then we wrestle the tree into the living room in front of the window.
Peeta pronounces it perfect and then goes out to clean up the kitchen. When he comes back, he is carrying a box. "I just remembered this was in the basement," he explains. He pulls out thick red candles and artfully places them on the mantel amidst the boughs he cut off the tree earlier in the day. He digs out strings of lights, which we wrap around the tree before gently adding the popcorn strings.
Finally, he kneels down and pulls out a shoe box with shaking hands. I am cross-legged beside him, waiting quietly for an explanation "Not long after I moved in here, my father called me and asked me to meet him at the bakery. When I got there, he pulled this box out from under the counter and gave it to me. He said my mother had been cleaning out the Christmas decorations and threw them out since I didn't live there anymore, but he'd rescued them for me." He passes the box to me. Inside are handmade Christmas tree ornaments: glitter-covered snowflakes that have been haphazardly cut out by an eager first grader, a string of paper gingerbread men, snowmen shaped from clay, stars made out of popsicle sticks; and the back of every single one of them is signed Peeta in a childish hand.
My mother was absent and neglectful at best, but never for a moment in my life has she dismissed me or treated me cruelly. The depths to which Peeta's mother would sink never ceases to astonish and anger me, but it won't help Peeta to criticize her. He hasn't done it in all the time I've known him. Instead, he steadfastly tries to be a good and decent person in spite of what he learned at her hand. I hang each precious ornament on the tree, before crouching back down beside him and taking his face in my hands. "They're wonderful. I love them. And I love you. Always."
The next night, we take our tea into the living room after dinner. We sit by the fire, enjoying the twinkling lights on the tree, the smell of my woods is filling our house and I'm feeling relaxed and happy. Peeta asks me about my family's Christmas traditions and I have to admit we didn't have many.
"When we were really little, my father and mother would make us little gifts, but there was never any money for a special meal or a tree," I tell him. "After my father died, it was just another day. Truthfully, as we got older, I didn't see much point in following an ancient tradition that no one has believed in since the Dark Days."
Peeta watches the fire for a while, his jaw tight and his brow furrowed. "So you think I'm being stupid then."
"Not real," I say firmly. "This is important to you. It ties you to your family and makes you happy, and that's good enough for me."
He lays back on the couch then and pulls me with him, settling me into my favourite spot in the crook of his arm. The dark mood that was overtaking him seems to have passed. He plays with my hair and then kisses the top of my head before lifting my chin to look at him. "Katniss, that ancient tradition is about celebrating a miracle. And if, after all that we've been through, you and I are finally together, alive and happy, I consider that to be the best kind of miracle. That's what I'm celebrating."
Peeta's ability with words never ceases to amaze and humble me. There's nothing I can say that will compare to what he's just said, and so I bring his lips to mine and try to convey all I'm feeling in a single kiss. "So what happens next?" I ask.
Peeta nibbles on my ear. "I'm going to take you upstairs and make love to you until you're soft and wet and begging for me." I chuckle in response, but it sounds throaty and not quite steady.
"No, I mean, Christmas."
"Oh. Well, I guess I have some extra baking to do. You'll need to hunt something good to eat. I was thinking we'd Haymitch, Sae and Lily over for dinner. You might want to call your mom in District 4 and invite her. Oh, and gifts. We have to make the gifts. That's the best part."
Five days before Christmas, Peeta seems giddy with excitement and I'm starting to panic. He painted Christmas scenes in the windows of the bakery and has been handing out brightly decorated cookies to all the children who come into the shop. He painstakingly painted a picture of Prim for us to give to my mother. We've ordered three bottles of the Capitol's finest booze for Haymitch and Peeta is planning to bake and hand-decorate an entire batch of cookies for Sae and her granddaughter, Lily. My only job, other than shooting a wild turkey for dinner, is to make Peeta's gift and I still have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do. I wander the woods and our house in search of inspiration, but continue to draw a blank. I flop on the sofa in the living room in frustration, gazing at the huge tree with Peeta's childhood decorations hanging here and there on its branches. It seems empty.
I grab the sharp knife I use to make new arrows from my game bag and rush out out to the woodpile where I toss our carefully stacked pile of firewood until I find a stick that's about two inches in diameter. I plunk myself down on the stump we use to split the logs and begin to systematically scrape the bark from the wood. Once it's clean, I take the stick down into the basement and use a handsaw to systematically slice it into a dozen half-inch disks. I drill a small hole near the edge of each one. All of this work has taken me the better part of the afternoon, and so I quickly tidy up the evidence and hide the disks in my game bag. When Peeta comes home from the bakery, I am so excited that I rush to the door and plant a smacking kiss on his lips.
"Hello to you too. That was nice. What did I do to deserve that?" he asks, but I just grin at him and reply that the Christmas spirit must finally be getting to me and take the bread he has brought home into the kitchen to slice it for dinner. In the morning, I all but push him out the door. "All right, Katniss, what is going on? What are you up to?" Rather than answer, I grab him by the collar of his jacket and pull his lips down to mine.
"Have a good day, Peeta." When I see him pass through the gates of the Victor's Village towards town, I rush for my game bag and the discs. I grab my knife again and begin to carve pictures into their surfaces. A mockingjay. A dandelion. Evening primrose. A loaf of bread. The lake. A tree. Our house. A daisy like the ones I placed around Rue when she died. Finnick's trident. The shell from the beach where he found my pearl. Flames. Our two hands clasped.
I work through the day, losing track of time. When Peeta arrives home, I have just placed the box under the tree. When he asks me what it is, I just say he'll find out soon enough.
After dinner on Christmas Day, we are all gathered in the living room in front of the tree. I am stretched out on our favorite spot by the fire, feeling lazy. My mother is curled up in a chair beside me with a glass of the wine Haymitch had contributed to dinner, and seems to be admiring the tree. Sae and Haymitch are sitting on the sofa with Lily on the floor nearby. Peeta settles down behind me with his arm around my waist. As I gaze around the room, I realize that this is our family, Peeta's and mine. We're a lot battered and a little damaged, but a family just the same. I feel Peeta kiss my neck softly. Haymitch scoffs. "Please, you two. Cut it out for once. I just ate." We laugh, used to his complaints.
I peek over at my mother who is smiling at us over the rim of her wine glass, which she sets down on the table beside her. "It's been a long time since I've seen a Christmas tree like this one," she says softly. "It brings back a lot of memories. We always had one when I was a girl. I remember sitting around it just like this after dinner and helping my father to pass out the presents."
Peeta sits up then and moves to the tree, passing out our gifts to our guests. Sae and Lily exclaim over the cookies. From the corner of my eye, I see Haymitch promptly crack open one of his new bottles, but I am truly watching my mother.
She tears the paper from the painting and then her hand flutters to her mouth. Her eyes fill with unshed tears until a single tear slides down her cheek.
"Oh Peeta, it's beautiful. Thank you so much. Thank you both. Katniss, I can't believe you remembered this."
When I finally rip my gaze from my mother's face to look at the painting, I see that Peeta has not painted Prim, or at least not Prim alone. She and I are running through a flower-filled meadow on a spring morning, hand-in-hand. I am about 10 years old in the picture and Prim is six. Our braids are streaming behind us. The more I look at it, the more I realize that this is not a memory I've shared with Peeta. It's one of his own, captured from his perspective on the sidewalk in front of the bakery on his way to school. I cross the living room floor on my knees and kiss him hard on the lips. "You constantly amaze me. It is the most spectacular painting I've ever seen and it outdoes this completely," I say as I pass him the shoe box containing my gift.
He opens it slowly, curious but uncertain, and then I see a smile spread across his face. "Christmas ornaments!" He lifts one out of the box, and dangles it on his finger by the ribbon I've threaded through the hole I drilled on top. As it spins on his finger, he notices the details engraved into the disk.
"Katniss, did you carve these designs?" I hear shock in his voice and I'm too nervous to speak and so I just nod. Peeta doesn't notice. He's completely absorbed in the detail of the ornaments. He lifts each one slowly out of the box, running his finger over the carvings. Then he flips one over and sees that I've carved our initials into the back.
He looks up at me and his eyes are swimming with emotion, but like me only a few weeks ago, he doesn't speak. He just rises and hangs each one reverently on the tree, and then kneels beside me, taking my face in his hands. "They're wonderful. I love them. And I love you. Always."
From his pocket he pulls a small box. "I didn't make it," he confesses. "But I designed it for you." My heart flips over in my chest and begins to pound as he closes my fingers around the box. "Open it," he whispers.
The ring in the box catches the lights of the tree and sparkles. Nestled in a circle of tiny diamonds, is a perfect pearl. I sigh a little and touch my finger to the cool, smooth surface of the pearl. "It looks just like the one you gave me on the beach. I carried it everywhere with me while you were gone, but it disappeared after our last siege in the Capitol. I had it in my uniform pocket with the nightlock pill."
"This is your pearl, Katniss. Your mother mailed it to me after her visit last fall and told me to give it to you when the time was right."
I look to my mother for confirmation and her face is glowing. She nods and sniffles a little. "Prim and I travelled to the Capitol hospital together. I stayed at the hospital and she joined the medic team. That's why I was there when they brought you in. They cut you out of your uniform and were about to throw it away, but I grabbed it at the last second. I found the pearl in the sleeve pocket and I've kept it all this time, waiting to give it back to you. After I saw you this fall, I knew it was for Peeta to return to you, not me."
Peeta gently touches my cheek and turns my gaze back to him. He takes the box from me and and turns my hand over to slide the ring on my finger. "I love you, Katniss. Marry me. Build a life with me."
The room is silent. All eyes are on us.
"I love you, Peeta. Always. Yes."