Prologue

"That's a nice song," said young Sam, and Vimes remembered that he was hearing it for the first time.

"It's an old soldiers' song," he said.

"Really, sarge? But it's about angels."

"Yes," thought Vimes, "and it's amazing what bits those angels cause to rise up as the song progresses. It's a real soldiers' song: sentimental, with dirty bits."

"As I recall, they used to sing it after battles," he said. "I've seen old men cry when they sing it," he added.

"Why? It sounds cheerful."

"They were remembering who they were not singing it with," thought Vimes. "You'll learn. I know you will."

― Terry Pratchett, Night Watch

The fighting season was coming to a close and the volatile weather of the Hindu Kush was becoming even more chaotic than usual. There was a thick soup of humid mist settling as low as the valley, so much so that the American Combat Outpost (COP) near the city of Kendu was completely blanketed in the dewy gauze. Afghan National Security Forces were struggling with heavy casualties, equipment, and pay shortages, along with corruption and lack of support from the other branches of the armed forces. They were having a hard time protecting interests in the most remote corners of the country. Plans were already in place to withdraw troops from the outlying provinces and redistribute Allied forces to more populated areas in Afghanistan to support the fledgling national security apparatus.

Staff Sergeant Peeta Mellark called his squad to order. There were 60 men stationed at this particular COP but Mellark was personally responsible for eight of those men, including his close friend, Corporal Finnick Odair. A dashing enlisted soldier who was on track to become an officer, Finnick was the bright spot on the squad - cool and methodical when he needed to be and perfectly unwilling to be serious if he didn't absolutely have to be. Odair significantly mitigated the effects of being stranded in such an isolated place, with nothing but the sound of the wind through the towering mountains to keep a man company in the deep of the night.

The men went through their drills, and Peeta delivered his directions regarding the withdrawal of troops and supplies. The men were visibly relieved - they were hoping for a reassignment near a city like Kabul, where they would find a semblance of civilization and comfort.

The mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan were truly mesmerizing, especially to the American eye, accustomed to the monotony of strip malls and housing communities. The land was slashed with quick ravines that raced with melted ice water cutting through the rugged crevices. But the villages of the Kush were very primitive - small enclaves of humanity forgotten by the larger world. Peeta admired the savage beauty of the place and spent many lonely nights in his barracks, sketching the mountains, listening to the winds howl, as if imploring the outsiders to leave. There was nothing intrinsically evil about these mountains. It was the war that turned beauty into a thing to be feared.

As the men broke off to their respective duties, Finnick strode over, as he often did, an unlit Camel Light hanging listlessly from his lips. He pulled his pack out and offered one to Peeta, who gratefully accepted it, lighting up as he scanned the ridges rising over the outpost. Peeta didn't understand why this particular location was built on such an exposed position except that it was a strategic place to have a presence.. This COP sat on an important supply line from Pakistan to major Taliban strongholds. However, Command was convinced that Taliban fighters, trained for guerilla warfare, would never organize the numbers of men necessary to take down the outpost.

"When does the first transport arrive?" Finnick asked at length as they stood companionably side-by-side, studying the western ridge of the rocks before them.

Peeta lit the cigarette, taking a long drag from it before answering. "Not sure. It's been delayed twice. There's a shortage of aircraft carriers."

"Seems like we've been 'withdrawing' for months," Finnick answered good naturedly. "I'm ready for a bit of R&R here. If it all works out, I'll be seeing my little boy soon."

Peeta smiled. Finnick was married to Annie, a teacher at the local elementary school, and they'd just had a baby boy they'd named Tristan, after his grandfather. Finnick's family was second generation Irish-American, and his maternal grandparents still spoke with the lilting dialect of their native village. Finnick had met Annie at the high school they both attended, and as he told Peeta, he had been smitten from the first moment he laid eyes on her. His family had struggled to finance his schooling, so Finnick decided to join for the GI Bill to cover his education when he got out. It was a plan and things were moving along the way they should, in Peeta's opinion.

Peeta didn't have a sweetheart. Unlike Finnick, who had a plan and a family, Peeta had enlisted to get away from his family. And the Army obliged, shipping him off to the most remote location on the face of the earth. And that was also as it should be.

"Come out with us. You'll be on leave at about the same time, won't you?" Finnick pressed, dusting the cigarette ash from his uniform that had blown in with the shifting wind. "Annie's been asking after you."

As they moved to the north building of the outpost, ready to change the watch, Peeta nodded, smiling at his friend and the prospect of spending time with the warm, loving people of Finnick's extended family. It was so different from the way his own family behaved.

"I made a picture for Tristen," Peeta said, pulling a folded page out of his pocket. "I took that photo you carry around and copied it. What do you think?"

Peeta handed the sketch to Finnick, who's face melted in tenderness at the almost perfect rendition of the pudgy boy they both knew as Tristen. His hands were up in rounded fists of defiance, his eyes the spitting image of his father's.

"Yeah," he said gently, running his finger lightly over the shadowed lines of pencil that, individually, were nothing more than scratches on paper. But in their totality, they represented the magical entity that was Finnick's son.

After a few moments of meditative silence, Peeta said "I think I want to try your mother's shepherd's pie. It's been a long time since I've eaten one made just right."

Finnick perked up, smiling happily. "Annie told me she learned my mother's recipe and wants to make it for us. She remembered how it was your fav-"

At the very same time, the sirens went off, cutting through their conversation, filling every corner of the outpost. Peeta checked his radio, the chatter flooding his earpiece. He focused on the words, tried to determine from the bark of commands exactly what the hell was going on.

Just as the words came over the line, an explosion detonated directly behind them. Weapons in hand, Peeta and Finnick moved in the direction of the launched mortar. Peeta scanned the area, cliffs and rock walls facing down on the northwest corridor. He was suddenly fixated on a flash of metal in the otherwise inert stone facade of the hill and realized a second too late that he was staring down the line of sight of a sniper.

"Finnick!" he cried out, willing his body to move faster as everything around him seemed to slow to an interminable crawl. Later, when he was finally able to describe this scene to his therapist, he swore he could still see the bullet hurtling at them, and with the illusion of his invincibility, lunged his arms forward, trying to drag Finnick out of the scope's deadly trajectory.

At that moment, Peeta could hear the voice of the military professor as he explained muzzle velocity to them. As Peeta's body moved forward, the voice spoke in his memory:

Muzzle velocity is the speed a projectile has at the moment it leaves the muzzle of the gun. The velocity of a projectile is highest at the muzzle and drops off steadily because of air resistance. Projectiles traveling less than the speed of sound (about 340 m/s or 1115 feet/s in dry air at sea level) are subsonic, while those traveling faster are supersonic, and thus can travel a substantial distance and even hit a target before a nearby observer hears the "bang" of the shot.

Emerging from his trance-like state, Peeta saw Finnick's body crumple, the report of the shot ringing just as his body hit the ground. The trajectory of Peeta's moving body found no resistance any longer, and he had to catch himself before he landed, sprawled over his friend. His best friend. Annie's husband and Tristan's father.

Peeta didn't need anyone to tell him what he already knew. As the explosions and shouts of men maneuvering themselves into a position where they could better protect the fortification filled the air, he only felt numb, staring at his friend before medics appeared to examine him. He knew what the medics were now yelling over the din of the battle, that his friend was beyond saving, that he was already gone. Steeling himself, he bent to take the paper he'd just given him from his still warm hand as another projectile whizzed by so closely, Peeta thought he could feel his hair lift from his scalp. He followed the orders of his commanders on the radio, turning on his heel and taking up his combat station. He skillfully reloaded his M4 rifle and pointing out at the suddenly hostile, side of the rising cliff, Peeta returned fire.

XXXXX

Panem City sprawled below Peeta's aircraft like a blanket of Christmas lights, twinkling merrily in the cool December night. Christmas had once been his favorite season - having grown up the son of a baker, it was one of the busiest times of the year - but also one of the most festive. Peeta and his family worked round the clock to fill the seemingly endless orders for cookies, cakes, and pies that were popular during the holiday season. Peeta had loved frosting the snowmen, the miniature Santa Clauses, and Elves. His mother, Sybil, of German descent, pulled out her recipes for spice cakes, lebkuchen, pfefferneuse, and Dutch gingerbread cookies. The smell of Christmas was the highlight of the baker's kitchen, and Peeta had looked forward to it since he was a child.

As he leaned his head against the cool, vibrating, airplane window, he searched himself for that usual excitement, that unbound pleasure in all things Christmas that he had always felt the moment the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers had been consumed. But as he deplaned and took in the decorated Christmas trees, the life-sized gingerbread house in the middle of the airport terminal, the jaunty music, and aggressively festive decorations, Peeta could only feel another variation of emptiness. The loss of that expectation saddened him profoundly.

His family knew he was coming, but he had been deliberately unclear about which day and time, citing the vagaries of the Army discharge process and the constraints of holiday travel. But the truth was, Peeta was putting off the inevitable reunion with his family. They would be happy to see him, and his mother would quickly produce a banquet of food large enough to feed a platoon, though there would only be the four of them other than himself - mom, dad, Ronan and Bannock. He already envisioned his father quietly weeping at the relief of seeing him in the flesh and his mother fussing in that overbearing way only mothers could, but Peeta would wish he was anywhere but home and he didn't think that was fair for any of them to experience.

So instead, when he gathered his luggage and hailed the airport taxi, he gave the address for Holland's Tavern, the neighborhood bar that was literally three blocks from his parent's house. Chaff Holland's establishment had been around forever and everyone knew the bar owner who'd lost his hand in Vietnam. He also rented out rooms in the small walk-up that housed the pub, mostly for folks just passing through on their way to the next town. It was a great stopping off point for Peeta before he faced the oppressive domesticity of his family.

As he entered the bar, he set down his military issued duffle bag under a tall table with two chairs. Chaff came over right away, shaking Peeta's hand. "Home for good?" asked the older man of about fifty with closely cropped curly hairs that was greying at the temples.

"Yeah," Peeta said quietly. It had been three months since Finn's death. Three months since he'd disappeared forever. Peeta had very little time left of his tour when that happened, and so had Finnick, but now he was gone. What was the point of it all?

"What's your plan now?" Chaff set down the coaster and a beer before Peeta.

Shrugging quietly, Peeta took a long drag of the cold liquid. The bar was dead and the faux-vintage jukebox played some top 40s jig that was snappy but trite, reminding him of a dozen songs of the same kind. He glanced down at his duffle bag and knew he'd have to go home eventually. He fiddled with the dog tags around his neck, knowing he'd also have to face Annie at some point, have to show himself to the new widow and apologize for not being able to save her husband. The knowledge of this gnawed in his gut until he felt like he would vomit. He was convinced that he was not the person she wanted to see. The same thought that had plagued him for three months reared up to torment him again: Peeta was the one who should have died. Peeta, with the overbearing mother, ineffective father, and indifferent brothers. Not Finn, who had a wife, a child, and a bright life to look forward to.

"I don't know. You got a free room, Chaff?" Peeta asked suddenly.

"Yeah, sure," Chaff eyed him strangely. "But your house is just up the road."

Peeta shrugged again, chuckling mirthlessly. "Yeah, but I'm not going home piss drunk. And I fully intend on getting piss drunk tonight." He tilted his bottle at the older gentleman. He'd get wasted so he could drown out the nightmares and the memories. Then he'd go home, join the world of the civvies, and try to get through the rest of his life.

"Hey," Chaff said, leaning in to speak to him with a low, sotto voice. "You got the same look about you that I had when I came back after my second tour in Vietnam. This is not a good time for you to be alone, even if it's what you want the most."

Peeta swallowed the mouthful of beer, the bubbles hanging frozen in his chest as the beer made its way down. "Thanks," he said noncommittally. He was suddenly angry with a vehemence that took him by surprise, but he didn't want to take it out on the older gentleman. "On that note, I'll have a beer chaser. House choice," he quipped dryly.

Chaff stared at him a beat longer than necessary before fetching a bottle of Jack Daniels. Serving the shot, he made to put the bottle back, but Peeta stopped him.

"Just leave it," Peeta said as he knocked back the small glass of amber-colored liquid.

XXXXX

A million thanks to loving-mellark for the incredible banner! Check out her other incredible banners on her tumblr or in the Movie!Everlark collection on AO3. Also, I am incredibly grateful for my betas, for betaing another massive fic in a relatively short time - katnissdoesnotfollowback, bubblegum1425 and peetabreadgirl. Check out their contributions to the Movies in the Month of May challenge - Everything You Are and A Thing to Be Achieved.

This is also in some ways a tribute to the late Whitney Houston (August 9, 1963 - February 11, 2012), who left a legacy of incredible music that continues to inspire.

I own nothing related to The Hunger Games, or The Bodyguard or any of Whitney Houston's musical patrimony.

I want to give credit for Peeta's storyline in this fic to loudman1, who is currently writing an incredible fanfiction called The Medic. He gave me permission to use some of the details in his fic in mine. If you have a moment, head over and read what he's got. It's his first fic - any feedback would be appreciated.