July 7th, 2014 | 7pm | Katniss

The bright yellow flowers look so out of place in my dark apartment. They literally did not have any place to be, before I finally decided to put them in the middle of the small square dining table, because I know it would make Peeta happy. I have just three rooms – a bedroom, a bathroom and a bigger one that is used both as a living room and as a kitchen. My furniture is limited, too.

It's not that I don't have enough money, because B.I.R.D. makes sure I do. Unlike Peeta, who has turned his own apartment into a nice place we often meet up with our friends at, I just don't find any point in hanging paintings on my walls or having a bigger wardrobe. I've never been used to luxury and I refuse to turn into one of those superheroes that get private jets and mansions. Besides, this place doesn't feel like a home and how could it when I'm constantly pulled out of it for work? This is the longest time I've been in the same bed every night – these past few months. I've even begun to turn the TV on when the nights get too silent. It would have been easier if it wasn't for Peeta's absence.

Somehow everything comes down to him. I don't like to think me being out of shape has anything to do with him being gone. Though I do lean on him on some level, it's solely as a co-worker that has my back. Going on a mission with other agents gives you more security and mental peace, of course, but you the person you should depend on the most is yourself and I know that. I've been without Peeta before and he's been without me, both left here and sent somewhere else. That can't be it and it's not. I didn't feel very well when he was here, either. It's hard to concentrate when you fall asleep 2 hours before you are supposed to be awake. Insomnia is always worse than nightmares. At least if I have a nightmare, I can call Peeta. Therefore, his absence isn't the reason. At least not the only reason.

I blame not my lessened hearing, but the steaming pot, when I don't hear Peeta's "too loud to be an agent" footsteps before his voice.

"Katniss!" His shriek might've been at the absurd view of me cooking in just a bra and sweatpants, but I'm not that lucky and it has to be even more embarrassing. I have my back to him, thus he can see the marks all over me, old and new. The instinct is to leave the food and run to my bedroom, but I don't follow it. He won't allow it and I'm too stricken to even turn around.

Putting on the salve earlier didn't turn out to be as easy as I thought and I only managed to get my front, shoulders and lower back. I could see in the mirror the two spots I couldn't reach that were slightly turning darker. And that's just the visible damage. Annie doesn't play around. Giving up on putting on a shirt is another proof of that. I bit my lip through the process, before I realized the material was too irritating anyway.

"Why didn't you go to the medic?" I feel his hand on a small area on my back that hasn't been hurt. His touch doesn't feel bad when not on injured places and I shiver despite the hot steam from the pot. His hands are warm, even though he was just out in the windy summer night. I'd blame it on the bread I can smell that I'm sure he got out of the oven right before leaving, but I think he's always warm.

"Because I'm me?" I try, turning to face him. He knows I'm too proud to ask for assistance. I hardly check up even after a not so easy mission. "It's not as bad as it looks. If I keep using ointment, it'll all be gone in a few days," I assure, wanting his concerned gaze to go away.

"God, I don't even want to see your legs." Who would, after the tiniest glimpse of my messed-up body? "You should be lying down. Go rest, I'll finish up here." I want to protest, remind him of my promise to cook, but I'm too uncomfortable, so I just nod.

"Just so I know, what are we making here?" He calls to me, as I'm opening the door to my bedroom.

"The chicken and soup not enough of a hint for you?" I hear his infectious laugh even through the walls. He wouldn't find it so funny if he knew the reason I chose to cook soup isn't just because it's quite easy. It's also known as comfort food.

This time I know better so I ignore the shirts and choose a grey hoodie. It's not as soft, but at least I don't have to go through the pain of putting it on. Zipping it to my chin, I go back to the living room area. Peeta probably meant for me to go take a nap or something, but that'd be ridiculous. I invited him. Also, let's face it, I'm so sick of us being away from each other and we are certainly not going to do that when we have no reason to. Not when we're in the same country and not under the same freaking roof.

I will let him cook. Offering to do that for him was a ridiculous idea. The proposition was the only way I could think of to make him come over, since I don't know how to admit I want to see him in any other way than to twist things. He is much better in the kitchen than I am, baking included. Probably not the most useful as an agent, but definitely my favorite skill of his.

Peeta doesn't hear my light footsteps, but the sound of paper wrinkling does get his attention. I quickly tear off a big chunk from the raisin bread. I laugh through bites as he yelps my name for the second time today.

"I hate it when you do that," he scolds me. "There are knives for that, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. You should take it as a compliment, really. I just couldn't wait to taste your bread." The words are barely out of my mouth, when I feel my cheeks flush violently. This is why Peeta's the witty one. He doesn't even laugh at my lame attempt, looking a little hot himself. I'd let him know of his appearence, but then he'd think he's hot hot.

"Honestly," I try to recover. "I've missed real food."

"There's a bakery just down the street… on like every street of NY, actually," Peeta says, a smirk on his lips as he changes the temperature of the stove.

"That's why I said real food. I watched a documentary last night. Did you know some people put hair in the dough?" I cringe just thinking about it. Even golden strands won't make their products better than Peeta's. "If I wanted to eat hair, I'd just grab some from the drain in the bathroom."

"I think that's just frozen pizza," Peeta tells me with a laugh. "And as far as I know, you don't eat that. Then again, I thought you didn't watch TV either…" Busted.

"Ah, it helps me get through the lonely nights." My tone is teasing, but by how fast the laughter disappears from his eyes, I can tell he knows there's some truth to be found in my words. They're not amusing; perhaps just a little, because they prove how pathetic I am. I used to find solace in the loneliness, in the dark night. Now, unless I can concentrate on the light from the TV, I'd be waiting for the natural light to show from my balcony.

The conversation drops, as Peeta finishes up in the kitchen and I give up on my resistance when my muscles protest and I just have to lie down on the couch.

"Do you plan on telling me what happened with Haymitch or will I have to torture it out of you? You know how terribly good at that I am." I find myself smirking, even though it's twisted. Judging by Peeta's silence, he finds it even less funny than the inappropriate way I complemented his bread.

When his lack of response continues on for another few minutes, I'm on the edge of bugging him again. Good for him, he approaches me before I get to do so, handing me a neatly cut piece of bread. When he chooses to sit by my feet instead of under them, I hide my disappointment by munching greedily.

"Mission officially closed," Peeta says in a tone that doesn't suit him at all; the official one that never really leaves our handler's voice. His gaze wonders far away from me, his thoughts too. A person who has just successfully completed a mission should not be thoughtful. Unless he isn't done.

"I'm going tomorrow, too." Immediately I open my mouth to protest, but Peeta silences me just as fast with his next words, "Haymitch wants me there. I didn't mention our conversation or even your name once, I swear." He doesn't have to swear. I believe him. I always do.

"Now not only are they taking my position, but they're giving it to you. If they plan for you to shoot with a bow, I'm quitting myself."

"Right, because the last time I was allowed to do that, it turned out so well." I duck my head to stifle the smile at the memory of that day in the woods. "Katniss," he says more seriously, making my gaze lift upward again. "You're over thinking this. Let's remember our rule to avoid any talk of work when we're together." I want to pry about his mission, forgetting rules set both between the two of us and from B.I.R.D. But he looks so tired and resigned, like he would've come to me even if I hadn't found a stupid reason for him to. He needs to be here as much as I need him to be. All I do is nod, locking away any curiosity or concern, but putting the key in a safe place, for a later conversation that's sure to come.

It's been so long since the last time we were alone together. All of a sudden I feel out of place in my own home. I'd mention our friends, but then that would lead to our occupation all over again; they all work with us, we can't forget that. I'd ask him how he is, but that would stir the conversation back to whatever happened on his mission that he's trying to hide; it's obviously the reason for his strange mood. Was it this hard before? It couldn't have been, we would've never become so close. It would've never worked out.

I study him. He really is so out of shape, that I have the perfect opportunity to gape at him without being stared right back. His body posture is as loose as it could ever get; he only lets his guard down this much when we're alone (funny how that works, since we can't stay two words to each other). His shoulders are more slumped than usual, I notice sadly. His scarred hands are playing with each other, making me wonder if it's because something's bothering him or he's as unnerved about our sudden silence as I am. I'm both sad and happy that I can't see the striking blue of his eyes, as he focuses all that's left of his energy to his jittery 's eyes are both my worst enemy and my best friend. Even if he was staring right into me, they'd still be the one feauture of him I can not read. When he closes off, there's nothing I can do to open him up. All emotions leave his face. I wish he'd get rid of that habit just for me, since he helps me so much without even trying. All he has to do is lock those same eyes with mine, mutter a few reassurences and I'll be stronger than the moment before, whether we're in the middle of a mission or simply sitting on this couch.

I need his reassurence now. I'm so tired of this and desperate for the familiarity that sitting up on my knees, I literally collapse on him. Our arms wrap around each other instantly; mine around his neck, his around my waist. He must hear or feel my small hitch of breath, but still not want to move away, because all he does is get onewarm hand under the soft material of my sweatshirt and start to feels so good, so impossibly good, that I know I will not be the first to let go.

He smells the same sweet way he always does and, as his shoulders relax under my grip, his presence becomes familiar too. My fingers run through his hair, messing it up, but I know he doesn't mind. He never has and if nothing else has changed, I'm not too worried about this.

"I'm happy you're here." I'm more than happy you're alive and here. But that's not what he needs to hear.

"Me too," I hear his whisper and the unspoken words echo in my mind: That I'm back from hell. But he would never let them slip out loud.

My grip loosens as the minutes go by and I begin to comprehend that he really is here with me. At least for now. Not unless he's given another mission tomorrow, which would absolutely crush me… especially if I am left without one. I run my fingers up and down the exposed skin of his neck, like I know it comforts him, one last time before pulling away.

As Peeta goes to check up on our meal, I follow the warmth that surrounds him and make myself useful in the kitchen, too. The horrible feeling of being alone is still a recent memory. That reminder, plus the fact that our time together is ticking, give me the courage I've always felt I needed to truly let my guard down even in front of the person that's closest to me. Not being ashamed to admit that sometimes I need someone else besides myself, I keep my gaze on Peeta as he gracefully stirs the soup and I take out the utensils that have been begging to be used since the last time I ate at home. I can't even remember when that was. More than likely before Peeta left for his mission. Silence envelopes the room again, but this time it's comfortable. Maybe we never did need to say much, after all.

When the soup is done, Peeta fills the only two bowls I own with it. It's not a secret that if he wasn't a regular guest of mine, I'd have only one bowl. I'm grateful that he places them right next to each other and I sigh when he moves the chair from the other end of the table to right next to me. I'm rewarded with the smile I was hoping for when I put the vase full of primroses on the table.

"They fit right in, don't they?" I ask sarcastically, my words mirroring my earlier thoughts. Even the dark blue vase is in contrast with the bright yellow of the flowers.

"You could've put a tablecloth," Peeta says and his unmoving smile tells me he doesn't mean it as anything more than a witty response to my own witty question, but it still pierces me. I don't have any tablecloths. Why don't I have any tablecloths? I'm disappointed it takes me more than 2 seconds to answer my own question: Because this isn't a home, Katniss. You don't need unnecessary stuff like tablecloths or too many dishes or paintings or a gigantic wardrobe. Considering I was brainstorming about this very topic just a few hours ago, how fast I almost changed my mind really speaks about the unhealthy influence Peeta sometimes has on me. Is it unhealthy though?I won't answer that, or Peeta's statement.

The chicken soup goes great with the raisin bread and I am greedily gulping down the contents of my second portion as we settle on the couch. Peeta changes the channels on my TV and I'm too pleased that my feet are where I wanted them to be earlier, in his lap, to see if he's just passing the time or actually looking for something. My couch and my bed are the only furniture I spent more than a few minutes picking out and every time my body touches their smooth surface, it feels like some of the lights in my brain go out.

I blame the distracting combination of his free hand massaging my aching foot and the comfy cushion beneath my head for my surprise at hearing his hitch of breath. I think Peeta himself is surprised he let himself go like that. But if I hadn't closed my eyes, if I hadn't been as selfish as I usually am, I would've seen it coming. He's here with me, but not really. Though I don't know what story his eyes tell, I know it's not a good one. Hazy never means good.

August 15th, 2006 | 1pm | Peeta

"You know, if this temporary unemployment becomes permanent, the cafeteria would be a great new working place for you. God know they need to change up their staff," Delly tells me while taking out a bagel from the paper bag on her desk.

I force out a laugh, but my friend's statement, however innocent, stings. It has been 3 months since my last mission, the easiest and most straight-forward mission I've been to since my early years, nevertheless went to hell. In that period of time none of the people that are in a higher level than me and could get me my next job have uttered a word to me. It's the coldest kind of benching. Perhaps I should've taken this treatment as a dismissal and found another job, just as Delly laughingly suggested. Instead I've been torturing my body by working out and my mind by cursing myself for being a stupid coward.

"Oh, but then you won't be the only one that gets a taste," I remind with a smile, taking out the other sweets I've prepared for her, while she eats the bagel. No one can stay mad at Delly for too long. Though she's one of the best friends I've made in B.I.R.D., I did know the friendship would come with limits. There's only so much of my pain she can understand, as the access to things happening her job in Statistics offers isn't very big.

"Mm, that's a good point," Delly nods, spinning on the chair across from me as she chews. I've noticed that habit since I've begun coming here whenever I get bored of the walls of either the gym or my apartment. That fact alone doesn't make me feel much better about my situation, because not long ago I was surrounded by agents that looked down to those that were stuck in Statistics. I like this company, tough. Delly takes my mind off things and she doesn't blame me when she doesn't get whatever she's doing on her computer done on time. Her colleagues aren't bad either. There's a group of girls that amuse themselves by stealing glances at me and then giggling behind their computers. I didn't mind it until Delly took it upon herself to tease me. All I did in response was nod and smile, because opening my mouth would eventually mean starting a conversation about actual romantic relationships and that's a sore subject for mostly everyone.

"Oh!" Delly squeaks in surprise and my gaze shoots up. Hers is focused on something behind me.

"Don't turn around," she rushes to say and I fight the instinct to do exactly the opposite.

"What is it?"

"Who," she corrects, looking intrugued. "Some girl walked in a few minutes ago. I only noticed her because she's not from this team. And because she's taken to creepily gaping at the back of your head."

I sigh, leaning back. Statistics girls are more than enough. "Do I have to remind you it's against protocol to be romantically involved with anyone on any level in any…"

"It's good to know you follow the rules," Delly interrupts me with a hesitant smile. "But I have never seen her before, Peeta. And everyone goes through Statistics at one point or another."

That grabs my attention. An intruder? No way, we are one of the most secure buildings in the country. No one gets through the entrance and past security without a badge. Each department requires a fingerprint scan. To access higher levels than 7 (floors above 14), you go through an eye scanner as well. Non-agents are always escorted.

What would this stranger need me for?

"She's coming. We might've been a bit too obvious."

I make the quick decision to turn around. Better face the truth before it's forced on you.

Yet somehow I don't believe any preparation could've gotten me any more ready to face her again.

Months ago, she would've stood out to me in a crowd. I had her face, her posture, even the slightest details like her braid and the dark green jacket that she always wears, memorized as if my life depended on remembering them. The problem is, Katniss Everdeen no longer represents those things.

Her hair is the first thing that prolongs the time it takes me to recognize her. It's still long and dark, but in a neat ponytail down her back. It no longer hides her face and for the first time I'm able to study her features not from a picture, but from the real thing. Her eyes are grey, but somehow… brighter. In her mug shot, she was close to scowling and though she most certainly isn't smiling now, she doesn't look murderous either. Her clean white shirt, tucked in a beige skirt, would never suggest she didn't have a home up to 3 months ago. Apparently she's feeling pretty cozy in B.I.R.D.

Though I hadn't seen her since she ran away after stabbing Glimmer's hand, I knew she was caught by another agent and brought here for interrogation. That's all the information Haymitch gave me during the briefing which was really brief with my partner in the hospital and me still in shock over my breakdown. I think what saved my ass from getting fired immediately were the two words that I had uttered before the black jeeps showed up. "I can't." Since then, I've been telling the story of how they actually meant I couldn't find Katniss instead of couldn't shoot Katniss. Haymitch stared at me, unconvinced, for a long time. When I saw the file, the lie was on there anyway.

"Peeta?" I head Delly's concerned voice from behind me.

Katniss stops walking as if she's expecting me to make the last 3 or 4 steps. "I'll talk to you later Delly, okay?" We share a quick final nod, but I can still feel her eyes on me as I make my way to the other girl.

I don't know what I expected her to do. Say something? Yes, words from her would be a first. Hit me? A possibility for sure. Instead all we do for more than a few minutes is size each other up. Or at least that's what she does as her eyes wander everywhere until they climb back to my own that had hardly left hers.

"Peeta," she states as if that's a normal start to a conversation, especially a first conversation. I realize I want to hear her say more words, not only to ease the tension, but for me to hear her voice.

"Katniss," I respond in the same tone despite how weird it is. Then there's more staring. I even raise an eyebrow in expectance, but she refuses to budge.

"Are you supposed to apologize or something?" I finally give in. Criminals that act like complete asses always have fewer privileges in prison. I wouldn't put it past Haymitch to make someone do something as embarrassing simply because he can. He's famous for using his power in inappropriate ways.

So when Katniss snorts, I'm taken off guard. "And why would I do that?" She even has the nerve to look offended.

"I don't know, so you can have dessert in prison?" My voice is sarcastic, but I still shift nervously.

"Prison?"

"Yeah, you know, that place where criminals like you go."

The surprise on her face quickly turns to hurt, but she swallows it down. I look away. Most of the agents are occupied with work, but there's a small part that's become very interested in our conversation.

"Well, you don't always end up where you're supposed to," Katniss tells me, staring deeply into my eyes.

Defeated, I sigh and point towards the doors. "Let's not do this here."

"Where are we going?" Katniss demands the second we are outside the office.

I take two more frustrated steps forward before I turn around. This day has taken a turn I did not expect. I've been itching for work since May, but a mission marked as complete is never something I'd want. "I don't know," I answer honestly.

"I might." I watch as she brings her hand up and opens her palm. A key.

"Who gave you this?" I question suspiciously.

"Haymitch Abernathy. Along with your name."

"So you're good at finding people?" I don't know why that's the one thing I ask. I could ask her how is she walking around unshackled and without security. She could've killed them, for all I know. Haymitch, too. All the people she asked for my whereabouts. Yes, my next question should definitely be a smarter one.

"I'm not bad," she says simply.

I don't take my eyes off her as I carefully grab the object from her still open palm. There's a small bird in flight etched in the middle of the golden key. The realization doesn't take long. I begin to suspect the reason why she came to me, whether she knows it or not. And I'm going to have to go through with it, whether I want it or not.

"It's not far from here. Follow me."

The main B.I.R.D building in New York has 20 floors, all intended for work and used both by field agents and office agents. The agency, however, has many deviations – prisons, hospitals… The adjacent building is ours, as well. It's a residence of sorts. It's where some agents live – most by choice, others… not so much.

"What is this place?" Katniss asks. She looks as baffled as I am, like she really has no idea what's going on.

"Your new home," I tell her simply, closing the door that says 12.8 on the back of it.

Her eyes lock to mine in disbelief, before she turns around and takes a few steps around the small apartment. When she faces me again, I can see an excitement building up inside her, hidden behind doubt.

Squinting, she comes to a stop right in front of me. "He plans to spy on me, doesn't he?"

"We're spies. It's what we do." I shrug, as if I have any idea what Haymitch would want from a criminal except to see them behind bars. "Not just anyone gets this treatment. You must be something very special."

Katniss looks down, crossing her arms. I've stumbled upon something. Hopefully it'll help me look like less of an idiot during the chat I plan to have with my handler very soon.

"These past months… I spoke to many people. At first they were just dragging numbers out of me - victims, stolen items... I had surrendered already, it didn't require much work," she admits, her voice soft. "Then I was sent to sleep in a locked room, but it wasn't a cell. The next morning I had to explain how I planned my robberies. Every little detail was written down. It wasn't as easy to get me to talk about myself, my past, but it happened eventually. It kept happening until they had enough to write a biography." She looks at me quickly before she begins pacing, her fingers skimming the plain walls.

"The last part was in some lab. They took tests, a lot of them." Leaning against a wall, she faces me again. "I just… why would they go through all that? It's become pretty clear they don't see me as a prisoner. What am I, then?" The only reason she's as willing to share the story is so I could interpret it for her. But how do I tell her she could very possibly be becoming a weapon?

"I don't know," I shake my head. "But I plan to find out."

A/N: Two sort-of-cliffhangers, I know, I'm sorry. But I got to keep you reading somehow. ;) Let me know if you're liking the story so far! You can find me on tumblr as seaquell or everlarkfanfiction (a new source I created for all kinds of Katniss x Peeta fics).