Just my take on that very special first time between Katniss and Peeta. Thank you for reading! And Thank you Suzanne Collins for giving us the Hunger Games trilogy!

Interlude Home

Tired.

There is no other word to describe what I'm feeling right now. My body is tired of the endless strain, the little food I've been eating, the few hours I manage to sleep. I exhaust myself daily and push my body to its limits. I get up before the break of dawn, go to sleep well past midnight and repeat.

My mind is numb after all the agony, crying and questioning I have done in the past months. I have cried myself to sleep, even cried myself awake, and have spent countless hours working on the memory book. The panic attacks that gripped me on innumerable occasions have finally subsided, leaving behind many hours of blank stares onto empty walls and faceless picture frames.

I was only aware of the others as an afterthought. Greasy Sae would appear and next thing I knew I was eating something. Then I would blink, and there was Peeta carrying me to bed. Another long blink and Thom would be dropping something at my Victor's Village home. Day in and day out, it was all a haze. Maybe my medication had something to do with the fog that had settled in my mind, but I know the truth lies within myself.

I had to accept the fact that no matter what, no matter all the sacrifices I was willing to make or did make, the end result was the same. I survived and Prim died.

The entire purpose of me volunteering for the Hunger Games was to save her. Everything else just spiraled from there: the Quarter Quell, the rebellion against the Capitol, Mockingjay. It was all a direct result of the decision I made to save my younger, sinless and faultless sister.

I had to move past that. I already spent so many hours, days, weeks and even months contemplating these thoughts, going through the motions of every single decision that led to my sister's demise. But now that the fog has lifted and my mind has cleared, I can see that it is done. There is no going back and I must move forward. But I have to start with the simple things.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old. I am from District 12. I survived two Hunger Games. I am a survivor.

Yes, I'm tired. My body is weak, my mind exhausted but I will endure this. I will find happiness and to do so, I will start with the simple things:

For instance, I will comb my hair.

I flicker through the channels as though I actually care for what is showing. I pause just long enough to pretend I'm listening to the commentary or the terrible acting being played out, and then I click on the control to the next channel.

He's in my kitchen now, once in a while asking some question or other, or commenting on his new recipe. I listen to his words, process them and reply accordingly. I even offer a smile when warranted or manage a small chuckle from time to time. This, of course, is part of my plan to come back to life, to return from the dark place I've been hiding in for so long. I turn my head to look at him while he works on the delicious smelling cookies he's been working on for the last couple of hours.

There he is, with his intense look on as he carefully crafts another masterpiece onto each individual cookie. Those golden eyelashes of his fluttering every time he opens and closes his eyes. His nose, wrinkled just so as he angles his piping tool, his hands pressing the bag with just enough pressure, so exact.

I look at him; really look at him for the first time since he's been back, since he planted the primroses. He's held me many nights, carried me to bed, tucked me in and even stayed until the break of dawn. He's kept the nightmares at bay, even fed me at times, and I have pretty much offered nothing in return.

We've shared a couple of quick kisses, mostly at night when we've gone to sleep together, but nothing too rash and certainly not too compromising. He's been such a gentleman, always has been with me. And he will never do anything more unless invited to. Never would he risk being sent away by me due to any indiscretion or for causing any embarrassment. Sometimes I can even believe that he would stay with me an entire lifetime and never ask for more than what we share now.

But that is no way to live. He deserves more than that, much more than that. He deserves much more than me, really, but since he's so intent on having me and loving me, I feel I owe it to him to give us a real shot.

He looks up just then, and catches me staring at him. His eyebrow goes up in question but offers a prompt and genuine smile.

"What's on your mind, sweetheart?"

I don't answer, I just continue to stare at him and I guess my look reflects something intriguing because he completely stops his handy work on the cookies, waiting for my answer.

Silence.

How do I put into words everything I'm feeling right now? Expressing myself was never my forte, but I am determined to show my new found control as I continue to look into his deep blue eyes.

"Hmm." The sound escapes without my permission, giving away some ground as I break my silence. My eyes shift from his eyes and trail down his nose to stop as his lightly parted lips. We have shared so many kisses in the past couple of years, some more intense than others. Some real, some fake, some deep, some light. Unconsciously I bring my hands to my own lips, lightly caressing my index fingers with them. They are surprisingly soft, but probably not as soft as Peeta's.

He raises another brow at this, his lips slightly curling upward into a quizzical smile.

"Does Ms. Everdeen want a kiss?" He meant his question as a small joke, probably a bit confused by my behavior. Maybe he's thinking I finally went mad.

"Yes." I answer honestly and my voice does not falter.

For the first time in a long time, I feel passion. I have thirst for life, to feel something more than dread and overwhelming sadness. I want to feel that warmth, that burning fire that originates from the pit of my stomach and reverberate throughout my entire being. I want to feel what I felt at the cave, or at the beach, but without the trepidation of death hanging over my head.

I probably don't deserve him, but he deserves more than what I've been giving. And I need to step it up if we are both to find some form of happiness together.

Just then, Greasy Sae comes through my door with her niece, interrupting our little interlude without her knowledge and quickly starts for the kitchen. She has made stew and thought we would like some for dinner. I thank her politely and even manage a genuine smile. I think she notices the small change in my demeanor because she slightly tilts her head to the side and nods once.

"That a girl." She offers the words as she leaves, her niece waving happily as they go.

At dinner we sit quietly, not really saying much, and if Peeta had any thoughts about our earlier incident, he keeps them to himself. The stew was extremely good today, or maybe for the first time I actually noticed any taste in it, and I dutifully eat my entire serving.

"There's going to be another special on tonight about the rebuilding in District 12." His tone is very matter of fact, but I can read the underlying tone of concern as he tells me the information. He knows I dislike the entire media aspect of our lives. I hated being pulled every wish way by the media circus during the Games, and the Mockingjay slash rebellion footage I had to shoot for the sake of the Districts. But none of that seems to worry me at the moment.

"I wonder if they managed to get any footage of us prancing around the meadows or walking hand in hand through town." I try to sound annoyed by the prospect of seeing any of these scenarios on television, but I just don't care at the moment.

"Katniss, you don't prance." He teases me as he finishes the last of his stew, his eyes gleaming with a sort of spark I hadn't seen in a while from him. Maybe it's a direct response to my sudden difference in behavior, or maybe I just noticed it for the first time because of my sudden difference in behavior. In any case, I try to look offended at the suggestion of my lack of prancing or my inability to ever be able to prance, but I know it to be true.

"It doesn't matter if they got any footage or not, I'm not staying up to see it." I could care less for any new documentary on the rebuilding of District 12. Not because I don't care for the rebuilding but because I see it every day, I live it. And besides, they always seem to leave room for an update on poor little Mockingjay and the boy with the bread.

After dinner, Peeta stays downstairs watching the special, wanting to see if they mention the new bakery he plans to build in town. As he does so, I sit upstairs in my room combing my wet hair as part of the new routine. Going through the motions of something so simple helps me digest today's event. For the first time I notice my hair is longer, the shorter patches that were singed are finally growing out. It looks more even out now, and less messy since I've been combing it through faithfully every morning and evening.

I sit at my vanity, staring at myself as I undo the tangles in my hair. The face that stares back at me is so different, almost unrecognizable. I suppose the entire ordeal since my volunteering as a Tribute had changed me in many different ways, but I hardly care for the physical aspects of my transformation, paying little to no attention to the skin grafts I've been subject to. It is my mental transformation that is important.

I suppose my makeover team would be disappointed at the state of my eyebrows and the obvious abuse instilled upon my nails, but right now I know those things are irrelevant. Peeta is not interested in any of that, wouldn't notice the difference once he realized what I'm willing to offer him tonight. What I want to offer him tonight.

What I need to offer him tonight.

I set my comb down and inspect my work. My hair is still wet but looks untangled, falling straight past my shoulders for the most parts while the shorter strands fall to my chin. My robe is lightly draped around my slimmed form, having bothered with nothing but the thin material to cover me tonight. It's a far departure from my usual oversized shirt and sweat pants but far more fitting for the occasion.

At that precise moment Peeta enters the room.

"Well, they did mention the bakery but mostly it revolved around the new Justice Building." As he speaks, he quickly moves across the room to the dresser and takes off his shirt, folding it neatly before putting it away.

When had we built a routine where Peeta undressed in front of me? The ease with which he does this reaffirms my already reached upon conclusion. This was all a matter of time. The thought brings a small smile to my lips. Maybe I haven't had much control over my life lately, but I have chosen this moment and somehow I know it is the right thing for me. And for Peeta, of course.

"Did they say anything about us?" My voice is surprisingly steady although my heart is racing so fast I think Peeta might actually be able to hear it.

He only offers a shrug, probably not wanting to upset me with whatever it is that was said. He pulls down the covers of our bed. Our bed, because he hasn't slept over at his house since, well, I can't really remember. The past months have been a blur were only just recently I have awoken

As I lose myself in my thoughts once again, I am brought back to the present as Peeta clears his throat, probably wondering what is wrong with me and why I haven't moved from my sitting position in front of the vanity.

"Are you coming to bed or are you going to continue staring?" He seems amused by my behavior, but I can tell by looking into his deep blue eyes that he's confused, maybe a bit concern. I stand up, knowing the moment has come, and as I do, he slips into bed under the covers, shirtless.

His eyes are fixed on mine and I know he's perplexed. His arms lay gently at either side of him with his palms up, almost as if inviting me into his arms. Even unconsciously, he is always drawing me towards him, inviting me in. But I never had the strength to cross the threshold, until now.

Right now.

Not waiting for fear and insecurity to creep in, my hands tug lightly on the seam of my robe, and it quickly becomes undone. I let it drop to the floor in a pool around my ankles, the soft material caressing my skin. I let out one slow, silent breath and count to ten in my head. I know my cheeks have turned three shades of pink and will soon reach a new sort of red never before seen upon my features, but I hold my ground. Naked. In front of him.

Peeta visibly gulps, and I know he wants to say something because his lips part but then close again. For the first time in a long time, Peeta is speechless. This brings a smile to my face, and an ease to my heart because although no words have left his lips, his eyes…those ridiculously blue eyes…say everything I needed to hear from him.

After that, everything else follows as it should have. I join him in bed and his lips immediately find mine. The way he kisses me, with such ardor and longing, it's almost unbearable. That heat I've felt before at the cave, and then at the beach, returns with ten times the intensity. With our hands and our lips we discover one another in ways I had never imagined. We make love, and the entire exchange surpasses every expectation and shatters any lingering doubts.

It is then, when I'm completely entangled in his arms that I realize I'm finally home.