"It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree." -Mockingjay, Epilogue.
-Five-
I am running. Running as fast as I can, pushing people aside indiscriminately, blindly. I don't know what I'm running towards, only that I need to get there before it's too late. My legs and arms are pumping, burning with the strain, but no matter how hard I push, I can't seem to get any closer.
Fire is everywhere, raining down from the sky, lighting on clothes and flesh alike. Screams fill the air in a haze of furious sound as I fight through the chaos to reach… what?
Finally, I see her, a flash of her white uniform, a braid of shining, pale blond hair trailing behind her, pulling off her jacket as she runs. I see the familiar sight of her shirt that has come un-tucked from the pants of her uniform like a duck tail. I am screaming her name and fighting with all my might to push through the crowd, but it is like running on a conveyor belt; my feet and legs are moving, but the ground spins by beneath me, pulling me further and further away as the rest of the world stands still.
Just as she has done every time before, she turns at the last moment at the sound of my voice, and I see her lips form around my name. I reach out a hand to her, hysterical tears pouring down my face, even though I know it is no use, screaming for her, begging for her to run.
And the parachutes rain down around her and ignite, and the whole world is swallowed up with fire-
"Katniss!"
A familiar voice breaks through the pain; a firm, warm hand on each of my shoulders shakes me awake. My eyes snap open as an involuntary cry bursts from my lips. I see a flash of blonde hair and blue eyes above me, and for a moment, I think that I've done it; impossibly, I've reached Prim, and if I can only get her to run, maybe this time she'll make it-
But there are no parachutes falling around us, and we are not in the City Circle. We are in my bed, in my house in Victor's Village, and it is Peeta who is hovering over me, his blue eyes wide and anxious, not Prim. Not my sister.
My sister is lost. She is not here. She is gone forever.
I close my eyes and feel the tears squeeze out from under my lashes. I draw a shuddering breath as Peeta lifts me up as easily as one would a child, his warm, strong arms encircling me and pulling me into his broad, solid chest. My arms go around his neck, one of my hands fisting in his hair as I fight against the fire that is searing behind my lids. If it hurts, he doesn't protest, just crushes me to him while I sob.
I feel the bed shift beneath us and peek over Peeta's shoulder. There as he always is, is Buttercup, Prim's stupid cat. He curls up on the bed just out of reach, watching me watch him with his great yellow eyes boring into mine. He always seems to know when I dream of her, somehow, and when I do, he is always there.
He's so old. One day soon, I will dream of Prim, and he won't be there to comfort me. I have seen so much death, so many human lives lost around me and at my hand. What is the death of one stupid cat to the Mockingjay?
I don't know what I will do without him.
Buttercup's gaze, combined with the pressure of Peeta's arms around me, the steady beat of his heart that I can feel through his chest pressed against mine, finally calms me. I pull back a little and Peeta loosens his grasp, pulling away just far enough to look into my eyes. He cups my face in his hands, wiping my tears away with his big thumbs.
"Was it her?" he asks gently.
I nod, fresh tears spilling onto my cheeks. He bends to kiss them away, his lips warm and feather soft against my skin. "The same as always," I say. "No matter how fast I run, I can't reach her, I can't save her." I let out a gasp, fighting back the sobs rising in my chest. "I couldn't save her."
Peeta doesn't talk; he doesn't try to make me feel better . He just pulls me back down to the mattress and wraps himself around me, holding me together with the strength of his arms, the solidness of his body. I press my face into his chest, the heat of his body searing my skin. His fingers trace gentle patterns against my naked back, soothing touches as I am lulled back to sleep by the beating of his heart against my cheek.
When I wake again, it is to Peeta's lips on that sensitive place tucked behind my left ear. Sunlight is streaming through the window, turning his hair golden in the warm light. His mouth is hot and wet against my skin as he makes his way down and across my throat. Gently he rolls me onto my back, his lips lighting on the hollow between my collar bones, sliding his body over mine. I glide my hands across the expanse of his broad, muscular back, up his neck and into his hair, knotting my fingers into his curls.
I do not forget my dream. Prim is still dead; once again, I could not save her. But for now, Peeta is here and he loves me, and my body, at least, is alive, and I can focus on how it feels.
How he feels, his growing hardness nestled between my bent legs. I arch myself against him, feeling him press against my wet, warm centre, and cry out. We move together, and he is everywhere, filling me, surrounding me, kissing and stroking me. He knows my body now, as he knows the rest of me, and we cry out together, tensing and shuddering, swallowing each others gasps of pleasure as each of us reaches climax.
Afterwards, I stroke the sweat dampened curls from his forehead as his blue eyes stare into my grey ones. "Good morning," he whispers with his sweet, sincere smile that I know so well.
"'Morning," I answer huskily.
He doesn't ask me how I slept; he already knows. Our lovemaking kept the dream at bay for a short time, but now it is already weighing heavy on my mind. Without his lips on mine, without him filling me and caressing me, the pain and fear and fire is tingling at the edges of my consciousness again, as if I were still lost in the dream.
Because today… today is the five year anniversary of Prim's death.
The citizens of the new Panem have made this day a holiday, in remembrance of the Capitol children and Rebel medics who lost their lives five years ago, bringing about the end of the war. They call it Memorial Day; I call it my own personal hell.
Peeta offers to stay home with me but I roll my eyes at him and force him to go. The bakery won't run itself and our friends and neighbors need food. Truth be told, I wish I could keep him home with me, but far be it for me to deny food to those like me who went hungry their whole lives.
I haul myself out of bed and force myself to be useful. It is easier when I keep busy, when my mind has no reason to wander. I clean the house, wax my bowstrings and fix the fletching on some of my arrows. When my stomach growls, I fry up some bacon and eat it with Buttercup. I can't find it in myself to pretend to hate him today.
Finally, I give in and dig out the memory book, flipping slowly through the pages that are warped with fallen tears. I'm careful not to let the dried primrose escape from where it is wedged in the binding. I stare at the picture that Peeta painted of her, and she stares back at me. He has captured everything about her; the sweet smile and guileless, caring eyes that hated for anyone or anything to be in pain.
This is how Peeta finds me, my cheek resting on the kitchen table and the book propped up against the sugar bowl while I stare at her portrait emptily, with Buttercup curled up against my arm, watching me. He smiles sadly at the two of us.
"You taking care of our girl, Buttercup?" he asks, scratching him behind his ear. Buttercup lets out a creaky meow and then starts purring, rubbing his face wantonly against Peeta's hand, quite unlike the crochety old tom that he is. He's exactly the same way with Peeta as he was with Prim, and I can't help but smile at the thought.
"There's what I like to see," Peeta says in my ear, his voice low. A shiver runs down my spine but it's not unpleasant. He kisses me tenderly on my cheek and his warmth washes over me. I close my eyes and inhale the comforting smell of the goods he made that day, a smell that has become so familiar to me over these past five years that we have been back in Twelve.
He leaves the room and returns with a sheet of paper from the library which has become his studio in the years since our return. He pulls out a chair and sits and while I watch curiously, he lays a fresh primrose on the paper, carefully folds the paper around it and tucks it into the book. He looks up at me, sees me watching him and smiles.
"I saw it on my way home, on one of the bushes out back. This one just stood out to me and I wanted to give it to her." The smile that he gives me is so sweet and so sad that I pick my head up off the table and kiss him softly on the lips.
Peeta smiles and goes to our pantry, rummaging around inside. "I'm going to start making dinner. I asked Haymitch to stop by; thought the old man would be desolate on his own on Memorial Day."
I stand wearily, and Peeta starts to protest that he can do it himself. "It's better if I keep busy," I say shortly, and he nods in answer, handing me some vegetables to start chopping and I sit back down at the table with the cutting board and the knife he hands me.
The door bangs open and Haymitch stumbles in. He practically falls into the seat next to me, and my nose wrinkles involuntarily at the wave of stink that rolls over me; liquor and unwashed man.
"Morning, sweetheart," he sneers at me. He is very, very drunk, drunker than I've seen him in a long time.
"It's almost evening, Haymitch," I retort.
He snorts. "Whatever. Who cares? Same old stupid shit no matter the time." He eyes me caustically, helping himself to a glass of red wine from the bottle on the table. "Well, are you having a good Memorial day?"
I can tell that by the harshness in his voice that he's had even more to drink than I suspected. It's a miracle that he made it to our house at all. I try to ignore him but the words sting. I stand up under the pretence of helping Peeta at the counter, and he wordlessly hands me a potato to peel.
"Had much to drink today, Haymitch?" I shoot back at him.
"None of your business. Not my mother."
"Thank god," I mutter, and I see Peeta's mouth quirk up in a smile.
"You can say that again, Sweetheart. You'd make an awful mother."
I'm surprised by the pain that lances through me. My hands that were busily peeling a potato go still, and I feel the blood drain from my face.
What the hell? I'm not sure what I'm feeling right now but it's certainly not something I ever expected to feel. So Haymitch thinks I would make a bad parent; what do I care? It's not like I ever wanted to be a mother. I never intended to have children at all.
Peeta has gone still as well. I see him turn and my head snaps to look at him as he spins around at the counter, his hands curling around the edge so hard that his knuckles go white.
"What did you say to her?" he asks quietly. His eyes have gone so dark that they look almost black.
Haymitch sneers. "C'mon kid. Look at her." He jerks his thumb in my direction. "Look at all of us! The Mockingjay, the face of the Rebellion. How many people did she kill? How much innocent blood is on her hands? And me, well I led how many kids to slaughter in those cursed games? Even you aren't spotless, Twelve's Golden Boy, hijacked and broken and so fragile that the slightest provocation can set you off."
"Haymitch," I warn in a low voice, eyes on Peeta. "You'd better stop, now."
But Peeta starts forward towards Haymitch, who has the good sense to draw back. Peeta slams his fists on the table between them, so hard that I jump and Haymitch's wine glass tips over, splashing purple liquid over his already stained clothes.
The room goes silent. Peeta's hands are trembling. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to calm himself.
When he opens his eyes again, his hands are still. "I think you'd better go, Haymitch," he says firmly. "You've obviously had too much to drink already."
Haymitch just laughs, an empty, angry sound. He stands unsteadily and makes his way to the door. "That's where you're wrong," he says as he yanks open the door and steps out into the growing dark. "The problem is that I can never seem to drink enough."
Our door slams, and I wince at the sound. Peeta is still standing rigidly at the table.
"Peeta?" I ask slowly. "Are you okay?" He doesn't answer. "Peeta?" I ask again, worriedly, taking his arm and turning him to face me.
He closes his eyes and shakes his head, not in disagreement, but to clear his head of the images that are likely fighting for control in his mind. Then, with his eyes still closed, he says, "He's wrong, you know."
I snort. "Which part? It's pretty clear to me that we're damaged goods, Peeta."
His eyes snap open, liquid pools of blue; lighter than before but still darker than normal. "About you being a terrible mother. Sure, you're not perfect, but you were a better mother than your own mother, a better mother than mine. You took care of your family, and you take care of me." He smiles now, that sweet one that I love so much. "He's wrong. You would be an incredible mother."
Friend. Lover. Victor. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. Wife. All these things I have been. But Mother? No.
I shake my head. I think maybe I want to believe him. But I just can't.
-Ten-
The door to our bedroom crashes open and a small someone dashes noisily across the wooden floor. He catapults himself onto the bed, and I see a flash of bronze colored hair and sea green eyes, so much like his father, before his weight crashes down on us.
Luckily I'm already awake. Peeta's not so lucky.
"NICK!" he roars, the second he's recovered. Finnick's son stands up on the bed between us and starts jumping.
"Wake up Uncle Peeta, Auntie Katniss! It's my birthday!"
I roll over with a groan, pulling my pillow over my head. More footsteps on the stairs, and I pull the pillow aside to see Johanna's lean frame propped up against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. "Your prisoner has escaped," I grumble, pulling the pillow back over my eyes as the fiend in question continues jumping on our bed.
"Sorry lovebirds," Johanna says with a smirk. "He's a slippery little eel."
I feel Peeta sit up beside me, a commotion and then Nick giggling as he snatches the kid mid jump. "Happy birthday, kid," he says to him. "How old are you today?"
"Ten!" Nick shouts gleefully.
Ten. Where has the time gone? He's nearly as tall as I am, already. One day not too far from now, he'll be as tall as his father is. Was.
"Where's Annie?" Peeta asks Johanna.
"Still sleeping," she answers in her caustic voice. "Thought she needed some rest from dealing with this urchin."
"Johanna, you're such a softie," Peeta teases. She must make some rude gesture because Peeta laughs and Nick gasps in a mixture of both shock and awe.
I groan, sliding a hand out from under my shelter to poke Peeta in the hip. "Oops," Peeta says mildly with a smile in his voice. "We better get out of here. Your auntie Katniss needs her beauty sleep." I lash out at him with my foot, but I miss and he just laughs.
"Bit late for that," Johanna says from the doorway. I hurl my pillow at her but she dodges it with a snide laugh.
Peeta scoops Nick up as if he were still a toddler and turns him upside down. He carries him giggling and squirming to the doorway and deposits him in front of Johanna, who takes him by the shoulders and steers him back out the door. Peeta kneels on the floor beside the bed and kisses the tip of my nose. I scowl at him.
"Go back to sleep, Mrs. Mellark. I've got a cake to bake for that little hellion but there's no reason for you to get up yet."
I roll my eyes at him. "Too late," I grumble. "I'm already awake. Might as well get a head start on hunting."
He smiles at me, so sweetly, and bends to kiss me tenderly. The hunger awakens in me but he pulls back, too soon. He grins wickedly at me when I protest. "That cake's not going to bake itself," he quips, standing and pulling on his pants.
I stumble out of bed, glaring at his good cheer. I am not a morning person, except when necessity dictates, and I can think of much better ways to wake up than Finnick Odair's son bouncing on my bed.
Nick is so like his father.
It looks like a beautiful day, so I dress quickly and head to the woods, skirting the meadow as is my custom since our return to District 12 and heading out a different way. Once there, I caress the sun warmed wood of my bow, breathing in the smell of the trees and the damp, musky undergrowth. My body takes over, moving silently over the brush, my eyes scanning for wildlife. Before long I spot a wild turkey, and I bring it down easily. Tucking the bird safely away in my game bag, I begin to check my snares.
Halfway through the snare line, Rory Hawthorne finds me. Judging by the sun, it's nearly noon. Since our return to District 12, Rory has taken to joining me on some of my hunts as his brother Gale used to. He is normally as silent as his brother, but today he makes no attempt to keep quiet as he crashes towards me through the brush. I scowl at him, wondering why he is making so much noise and scaring all the game, but then I see the panic on his face.
"Katniss! The bakery! There's been a fire!"
Fear grips me so tightly that I'm gasping for air. Fire. Why is it always fire? I clutch Rory's arm so tightly that he winces, but he doesn't pull away. "Peeta," I ask urgently, "is Peeta okay?"
He hesitates. "Rory," I say warningly.
"He's not burnt," he answers cautiously, and the way he's looking at me tells me all I need to know.
Peeta didn't burn. He had a flashback.
Rory takes my game bag with the turkey and the two rabbits that were caught in my snares as I sprint through the woods. A branch whips against my cheek as I run, drawing blood, but I don't stop.
I skid to a stop outside the bakery, where Thom, Haymitch and a few of the others are gathered. Smoke is billowing from inside, but the fire appears to be out, and the building is still standing.
"Where is he?" I gasp, short of breath and frantic. "Is he still inside?"
"He's not here, Sweetheart," a gruff voice answers. I whirl around to meet Haymitch's eyes, grey seam eyes, just like my own.
"Well, where is he?"
"He ran. Home. He locked the door; I couldn't follow him."
"Probably best that you didn't anyway," I answer sharply. "You would've just made it worse."
Haymitch rolls his eyes. We are so much alike- too alike- sometimes. "Well it didn't seem like too bad a flashback this time. First one he's had in a while."
I nod. "I have to go. He needs me."
I sprint back to the house and Haymitch is right, Peeta has locked the door. But we always keep our bedroom window open so that Peeta can keep cool when he sleeps. I scale the tree outside our window easily, kick out the screen with my feet and slither in, landing catlike on the wooden floor.
There is no sound in the house so I know that his episode must have passed. At first the house appears empty but I know where he will be. He must be in his studio. Painting.
I knock softly on the door. "Peeta, it's me. Can I come in?"
Silence. And then, softly, "Yes."
I open the door slowly. He is at his easel, his brush moving furiously over the canvas, spreading wide swathes of red and orange. He doesn't look up at first, just continues to paint and I shut the door quietly behind me, trying not to disturb him.
Something at the corner of my eye draws me, another painting just off to his right. At first I think that it's a painting of me; the girl in the picture looks so familiar, with her dark braid and olive skin. But then I see that Peeta has given her blue eyes. It can't be me.
He finishes his strokes and turns to me, his brush clenched in his hand. There is a smudge of orange paint on his cheek. His eyes are wide and his hair dishevelled. I kneel on the ground in front of him, reaching up to wipe the paint from his face. His clothes are dirty and smell like smoke.
"What happened?" I ask softly.
He scrubs a hand tiredly through his mussed waves. "I was pulling Nick's cake out of the oven and the cloth I was using to hold the pan caught fire," he explains. "I'm fine," he says quickly as I take his hands and check them for burns. "Really, I'm fine."
"Okay," I say dubiously.
He looks down at the brush, his fingers clenching around the handle again. "Well, I mean, I didn't get burned. The fire triggered a flashback."
I nod. "Was it a bad one?" I asked.
He shakes his head. "I haven't had one in so long, I thought maybe I was cured." He smiles wryly. "Stupid I know. But I was already thinking about... things... seeing Johanna this morning, and Nick... God he looks like Finnick... and then the fire started and I just went over the edge."
I nod. I don't have to suffer through flashbacks, but the nightmares are enough. I climb into his lap, taking his hands and wrapping them around my waist. I press his face to my chest, running my fingers through his hair. He plants a kiss on the vee of skin visible over the neck of my shirt and closes his eyes, leaning tiredly against me.
"Who is that?" I ask him, pointing at the painting of the brown haired, blue eyed girl to his right.
He looks where I'm pointing and I feel him tense below me. "I... I hoped you wouldn't see that," he says.
"Why?" I ask curiously, "Who is it?"
His eyes dart back to mine, pleading with me. "She's been on my mind for a long time, and painting her is the only way I could stop thinking about her. I can't talk to you about this because I know you don't want them and I swear, I'm fine with it, Katniss..."
He trails off, but I understand. I know now who the girl in the painting is, why she looks so familiar.
Peeta has painted our daughter.
I can feel him anxiously watching for my reaction, his hands tightening unconsciously around my waist, but for some reason, I can't tear my eyes away from his painting. She is familiar because she looks like me; her hair is even braided. It is almost like looking at a photograph of myself, except that instead of grey eyes, they are blue. But even though they're not my eyes, they are familiar; I know their shape and that bright crystalline blue even better than I know my own. They are Peeta's eyes.
My heart is pounding and I can feel a lump rising in my throat as some unfamiliar emotion invades me.
"Katniss?" Peeta asks hesitantly, breaking me from my reverie.
I shake my head and look at him. His eyes are anxious. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I never intended for you to see this. It was just for me. A way of getting her image out of my head. Please believe me, I never meant to push you."
"Why a girl?" I ask.
He blinks. "I don't know. I never really though about it. Maybe because I grew up in a house full of brothers. But I don't want you to worry about it."
I ignore his last comment. My eyes flicker back to her face. "She looks like me," I say stupidly.
Surprise flashes across his face, which he quickly hides. "Yes," he says cautiously. "That's what I always imagine her looking like. What I would wish her to look like." He smiles sweetly and presses a kiss to my shoulder. "Like you. My beautiful wife."
I roll my eyes and scowl to cover the emotions that well up inside me. What is going on? Abruptly I stand up and spin away from him.
"Peeta, I can't. I just... can't."
He stands with me and takes my hands in his own, kissing first one, then the other. "I know," he says. "I don't need children, Katniss. All I ever wanted, my entire life, was you. And now..." he smiles, "now I have you and I wouldn't dare ask for more. It might be a little greedy, don't you think?"
I roll my eyes again but when he bends to kiss me, I kiss him back. Behind my kiss I try to put everything I can't say, that I'm sorry that I don't want children, that I wish that I could deserve this selfless, beautiful man, who would give up being a father just because he loves me.
But I hide behind the kiss too, press myself against him and meld my body to his so that he won't see my fear. Because there is a new fear welling inside me, surging up from a place I didn't know existed.
He pulls back and laughs, a dry chuckle with little humor. "What kind of father would I make anyway? If just seeing Finnick's kid makes me go nuts?"
My grip on his shoulders tightens. Anger rushes through me all over again, an old pain but still so fresh, even after ten years, that Snow did this to my beautiful Peeta. That they could still, after all these years, make him doubt himself. "You would be the best father, Peeta. The very best," I insist. "You take care of me."
He laughs again, a real one this time. "Katniss, of all the people I have ever known, you are the absolute last one that needs to be taken care of. My Mockingjay."
I scowl and punch him lightly on the arm, but he only laughs and kisses me again. "Come on," I say, climbing off of his lap. "We've got a birthday party to get to."
That night, I watch them all. Annie, who seems tranquil and happy, Johanna, talking with Haymitch, neither of them drunk, for once. And Peeta, my husband, entertaining all the children, making Nick and all his little friends laugh.
And I can't help but think of her, the little girl in Peeta's painting. And watching him, with that beautiful smile shining on his face, I'm filled with fear again.
But this time, it is a fear that maybe I do want that little girl after all.
-Fifteen-
Peeta likes to make love in the morning. He wakes up early to open the bakery, and usually he lets me sleep, but sometimes he wakes me with his lips on mine, or on my neck, or on that sensitive mound between my thighs. Sometimes I pretend to mind, but I really don't. Even after fifteen years, I never get tired of it. Of being with him.
We are two broken pieces of a puzzle that fit together, shaped and melded together by pain and loss, that need each other to be whole. But something is still missing.
I watch him with the kids in the town, with Nick Odair when he and his mother come to visit. It is so easy for him; it turns out his charm extends beyond adults and he know exactly what to say to children, as well. And more than that, I know how much he wants them. He never says anything, never pushes me, but I can see it in his eyes. How badly he wants children of his own. Of our own.
One morning, I wake from a fitful dream and sneak out of bed, using all of my hunter's stealth to leave the room without waking Peeta. My feet take me to his studio that was our library. Without thinking, I pull out that painting that I discovered after his episode five years ago; the painting of our daughter.
I stare into her eyes, this girl who is a stranger, and yet so familiar at the same time. I touch the smooth brush strokes of Peeta's hand, so sure, so beautiful. I know, now. I want that little girl. And it terrifies me.
I tiptoe back into the bedroom, crawling back into bed beside Peeta. This time he stirs, turning to blink sleepily at me.
"Hi," he says, his voice still scratchy from sleep.
"Hi," I answer.
His eyes graze my face, the slight curve of my small hips beneath the covers. One big hand emerges to cup my face and he leans forward to kiss me, gently tugging my lower lip between both of his. His body presses against mine and I can feel him, hard against my stomach. I draw in a shaky breath.
He pulls back, frowning. "What's wrong?" he asks, "You're trembling."
I look into his bright, guileless blue eyes and the word bursts out of my mouth without my permission. "Okay."
His brow furrows, confused. "Okay, what?"
I take a deep shaky breath, my blood roaring in my ears. "Okay, let's have a baby."
Peeta grows absolutely still, like a deer that has just spotted a wild cat stalking it. "What do you mean?" he asks, his lips barely moving.
I roll my eyes at him. "I mean, I want us to have a family."
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice suddenly urgent. His hand darts out to catch and hold my wrist.
"No," I answer. "I still don't know if I can do it. But I want to try."
His eyes search mine for a moment, and then some indescribable mix of emotions flits across his face that sends a flash of heat through me straight to my core. I don't even have a chance to react before his lips come crashing down on mine. He wraps his arms around me, both of his hands knotting in my hair at the back of my head.
This is the Peeta I love best. The Peeta who lets his power, usually held so carefully in check, spill over. My body responds ferociously to his assault; I feel his teeth on my lower lip and gasp, my fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back as he grinds down hard against me, making me cry out.
He pulls back suddenly, ignoring my whimper of protest, only to slide down between my thighs. My insides clench involuntarily at the blistering look he casts up my body before laving me with his tongue in one long stroke. His hands dig into the inside of each of my thighs, spreading me wide as he probes me with his mouth. His lips fasten on that sensitive bud and I moan loudly, bucking my hips against his face. He circles and circles me with his tongue, sucking and swirling, until with one hard flick I am flying, tingling spreading from deep in my belly out to my toes as I come with a shout.
He slides his body over mine and into me as the tremors are still racking my body. I nearly scream his name as he slams into me. "My Katniss," he growls in answer, his voice contorted.
He slides his hand up my body to roll my nipple between his fingers again. He swallows my gasps hungrily as I raise my hips to meet him. We move together jerkily, with abandon, driven by Peeta's furious passion, both of us crying out as our bodies alight with sensation. Suddenly I arch my back again as he gives my nipple a tug, tremors spreading from my swollen nub and where we are joined. He cries out as he comes too, clenching a handful of my hair in his hand.
We watch each other, panting. My fear snaps back into place like a rubber band, but I can see the joy radiating out of him as he plants a trembling kiss on my brow.
He asks again, "Are you sure?" and this time, I answer "Yes."
I stop taking the pills from the Capitol, the ones that keep my womb empty. And when Peeta wakes me in the morning to make love, I am thrilled and excited and terrified.
On that fateful day, I wake again before Peeta when nausea grips me. I race to the bathroom and bend over the toilet, heaving up what little is in my stomach from dinner last night. It is has been fifteen years since we returned to District 12.
"Katniss?" Peeta is stirring. "Katniss, are you alright?" I hear him stumble sleepily out of bed, making too much noise as he always does. He finds me in the bathroom, staring at the mirror.
When he sees my face, he rushes to my side. "Katniss, what's wrong?" he asks, his eyes wide with alarm. I know why he is worried because in my reflection in the mirror, I can see what he sees: my face, drawn and pale, tears on my cheeks, my eyes wide and staring.
But when he takes my face in his hands and his eyes meet mine, I manage a shaky smile. "I'm fine. I have something to show you."
I take his hand and slide it across the swell of my abdomen, watching his face. For a moment he doesn't understand, and then his eyes grow wide with wonder. The blue of his eyes blurs with his tears, and a single shining drop rolls down his cheek. Slowly he sinks to his knees in front of me, one hand on each of my hips. His eyes close and he presses a reverent kiss to my stomach.
A first kiss from a father to his daughter.