2

Peeta's POV

It's amazing how soundly I sleep in a bed that's not my own. Considering the lonely, confusing, interminable nights spent listening to Johanna Mason's terror-filled screams somewhere in the bowels of the Capitol, I find that it's shockingly easy to draft off in a strange place, especially next to someone that I was once convinced would slit my throat while I slept. Maybe, I muse, as I widen my eyes to clear my blurry morning vision, I wouldn't really consider Katniss' bed a strange, unfamiliar place. While I've never slept in her bed, it's certainly not the first time I've imagined doing so, and with her in it; quite the opposite, I have to admit. I've been here a hundred, maybe even two hundred times in my adolescent dreams. In a way, although last night didn't go the way I'd always fantasized it would - hey, I'm an 18-year-old guy, what do you expect? - in a way, it was infinitely better ... because it was real. She'd stayed on her side of the bed and hadn't curled up next to me, as if searching for some semblance of comfort, the way she had on the train ride to the Quarter Quell, but I can't say I was surprised by that. We've been through ... for once, I don't even have the right words for what we've both been through ... but I find it spectacular that Katniss has let me into her bed at all, let alone her life.

Simultaneously, I stretch and yawn, still blinking at the bright morning sunshine streaming through the gauzy curtains that flutter back in the light breeze. She opened the windows for me. I'm sort of sorry that she woke up before I did, since otherwise, I might have been able to spend a little time close to her. She's only across the room, but even in her chair by the window, she seems incredibly far away.

"Morning," I say quietly, scrunching my shoulders, which are sore from the previous day's planting. "How long have you been up?"

She half-turns, not quite facing me. "Not long. Maybe a half an hour. I didn't want to wake you. You were snoring."

My mouth drops open in mock horror, and I toss a pillow at her, which misses - slightly. "Are you kidding me, Katniss? I don't snore!"

I notice the corner of her lips twitch. "If you say so." She pauses. I know I don't, unless I'm very, very tired, and even then, it's very slight. "You were humming last night..." She sounds as though she wants to say more, but stops herself.

"Humming?" I am flabbergasted. That's too random a thing for her to make up, and the teasing tone in her voice is definitely gone. "I ... don't think I've ever done that before in my life," I stammer, "well, not that anyone but you could actually vouch for that ..." I clear my throat, suddenly feeling my face and ears reddening. "Did I keep you up last night?" I ask, a tinge of remorse to my voice. "I mean, I am in no way admitting that I snore, but ... were you able to sleep with me here? If not, I don't want ..."

"I slept," she replies, then turns back to the window. She reaches up and moves the curtain aside, as though she's looking for someone ... but who? Haymitch? Someone dangerous? Or ... oh. I should've known. She's looking for him. Wait - not looking ... waiting.

My shoulders slump and I feel like hiding under the covers, or running out of her house and out of District 12 forever. But I don't. And I know I won't, not now, not ever.

"I dreamt about him again last night," she says, and at first I'm so enmeshed in my own suspicions and petty jealousy that I don't know who she's referring to and don't respond. "I don't understand why I keep having these dreams out of nowhere, when everything's actually, finally over. I thought if the war could end, then the pain could, too."

Ah. She's not talking about Gale Hawthorne in fancy District 2; she dreamt of her father again. Her voice is choked with emotion and I realize she's on the verge of tears. Rapidly shaking off all of my insecurities about Gale, I'm out of bed and at her side in what seems like a millisecond. In front of the window and clad in a white t-shirt and boxers, this tableau must look spectacular for any early-morning District 12 passerby. In the back of my mind, I imagine Effie Trinket fainting and Haymitch just standing there laughing, mumbling "at least they're wearing something."

I stand behind her for a minute, at the beautiful, messy waves of her hair, which fall to the middle of her back, and her bare shoulders, which are trembling and alert me to the fact that she is crying. I don't know what to say or do. The Peeta Mellark I used to be, the one who always had a TV-worthy line and a shiny smile for the cameras, is no more, and has been replaced by someone more skittish and uncertain of how to help, especially when it comes to Katniss. I'm taken aback by seeing her cry. Well, I can't see her face, but I've never seen her like this before. I wasn't there when Prim died, but I did see the footage of Katniss' tears as she placed flowers around Rue's body in the 74th Games. The only other time I saw her cry was also via videotape: it was when I died. Or, "died," and was revived by Finnick Odair. Her reaction was more hysterical than these quiet tears - probably due to the dire circumstances we were already in.

My words come out as a whisper. "It will end, Katniss, I promise," and although I'd told her that she'd have to lead the way in regards to physical contact, I gather her hair into a loose ponytail in my hand and gently place it over one shoulder. I almost want to ask Can I...? but feel like I'd be losing too much of my masculinity, somehow, if I did. Instead, I put my hand on the side of her neck, as hands on the shoulders seems trite to me. I'm not sure how she'll react to my touch, but instead of flinching, she sighs deeply and leans to one side, so that my hand is cradling her head. "If I could ... take all of the horrible, painful things that have happened to you, Katniss - not just since the day of the Reaping, but everything in your whole life - if I could take all of those things and somehow put them on me, I would. I really would."

She grabs my hand then, with a fervor and desperation that frightens me. As she speaks, she looks up at me with those intense dark eyes of hers, and I'm bolted to my spot on the floor. "I would never want you to do that," she states firmly. "Never. You weren't exactly at home making cupcakes while I was being the Mockingjay, Peeta. You've been through your fair share." She pauses, searching my face for a reaction, but I'm busily focusing on breathing. I feel an attack coming on, but I'm advanced enough in my recovery now that I may be able to stave it off by using some of the relaxation techniques taught to me by Dr. Aurelius. Luckily, the eerie, mind-befuddling shiny-ness that accompanied my early and most severe attacks, no longer occur. Also, this doesn't feel like a typical episode; it feels more like the details of a memory trying to resurface - the same one that emerged the second I stepped off the train in District 12. And I really, really didn't want this one to come back.

But suddenly she is speaking again, so I try to focus on her. It's not difficult. "This isn't a one-way thing," she murmurs, "and I never want you to think that. I want to keep you safe, too. I don't want you to be hurt ever again." Her tone is soft, yet serious, unwavering. "I would kill anyone who tried to hurt you."

I close my eyes and try to conjure up a comforting place and the five senses that I associate with it. First, I try the most obvious - the bakery. The scent of baking cookies in the oven. Shelves of freshly baked bread surround me as I knead dough - no, as I use a small brush to apply frosting to a marzipan dessert - a very rare and special treat in those days. OK, I need a sound. Generally, as a child, the sounds that emanated from that place were none too pleasant nor comforting - it was usually my mother screaming at one of her two favorite targets - my father, or me.

She's still staring at my face. I can practically feel her gaze boring through my eyelids. I don't want to frighten her and give away the truth that a mini-attack might be minutes away, so I open mine and stare back. "I know," I respond, suddenly feeling afraid to touch her or show any signs of affection - not because of the oncoming episode, but because she looks truly fierce - and fearsome. "I would do the same. I'm sorry your day had to start off like this." I reach over and, in spite of my trepidation, touch the back of my hand to her wet cheek, and suddenly the memory is moving backwards in my brain, submerging, moving further and further away, and I am back in the present. With her. "I can't singlehandedly make your nightmares stop, although I wish I could, but maybe ... maybe my being here will help make things better when you wake up." I smile, hoping she'll mirror me. "Come on. It's a beautiful day outside. I'll make breakfast. What would you like to do today?"

She smiles ever so slightly, and it brightens her whole face. The room. The world. "I think I'll take a walk before breakfast. I'd like to be alone, just for a little while."

"You don't have to check in with me," I say, and then wonder if that sounded too harsh. "What I mean is ... you don't have to answer to me. I know you can take care of yourself. And I know how important it can be to spend time by yourself when you need to."

She's already pulling open her closet and shrugging on her father's old leather jacket - the one she wears when she's going hunting. Absently, I wonder if she's going to bring back lunch or if she really is just going for a regular walk. Maybe she's going to see if the local gossip rag's already published the pictures of me comforting her in my skivvies.

I cross the room and Katniss helps me reattach my prosthetic leg, which I typically take off when I go to sleep. Sheesh, I think as I shake on my pants, what a turn-on this must be. It's everything I can do not to roll my eyes at my own deformity. My own war wound.

"You know," I say slowly, "maybe I'll go for a little walk too, and then I'll throw breakfast together when we get back. Don't worry - I'm going the other way," I add with a smile. "I bet you're going to the woods ... I'm going to walk towards town."

"You need something?"

"I, uh, yeah. I just need a couple of supplies. And I need to stop by my house ... to get some clean clothes. And my toothbrush." I grin, and she seems to relax.

"That would probably be a good idea." Though I don't need it - and haven't needed it for a long time - she loops her arm around my waist to help me stand.

"Thanks." I'm wondering why she hasn't moved her arm, when suddenly both of her arms are around my neck in a hug - a real hug.

"Katniss," I mutter - my face is buried in her hair - "I can't breathe!"

"Oh," she says, smiling. "Sorry."

"Not that I'm complaining," I say, finding it impossible not to return the smile, except mine quickly spreads across my entire face until it feels as though it's about to split in half. "Let me just take a deep breath, and you can do it again." I raise my arms like an affectionate zombie.

She puts a playful hand on my chest. "Don't press your luck, Mellark," she growls, but the smile stays in place. After a moment, she grows serious. "I know I said this yesterday, but ... I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too."

She leans in and favors me with a kiss on the cheek so brief that I sit on the edge of her bed and wonder, for what seems like forever, if it actually happened. She leaves the room with a glance over her shoulder and even a little wave. I hear her clanging around downstairs - probably putting on her hunting boots and getting her gear together - and then the screen door that lets out into the backyard bangs shut.

After my surprise fades, I walk quickly across the street to my house in Victor's Village and go up to my own room. It's strange - I haven't seen this room in months and months - and I chose to go right to Katniss before even sleeping in own bed. Okay, maybe it's not really strange or surprising at all. I mean, come on.

Part of my mind is still dwelling happily and hopefully on the things Katniss said to me - two of them in particular. First: "I never want you to think this is a one-way thing." She had never, ever said anything remotely like that to me. All she'd said regarding my feelings for her were ambiguous, vague comments like, "I don't know." So yes, she would protect me. Because that's what we do. But ... could she have meant more than that? Were my feelings for her no longer unrequited? No, I couldn't let myself even begin to think of that as even a distant possibility. I couldn't pin that much hope on her loving me. Yet ... maybe it wasn't impossible? Maybe she was beginning to have feelings for me? Yeah, another, more skeptical part of my brain chimed in, now that Gale's gone and she has no other option or anyone else in her life, she'll force herself to find a way to love you.

Somehow, though, I push these puzzling thoughts out of my way, because there's a more important task at hand, and I'm on a deadline here since I don't know how long Katniss planned to hunt. I yank open my closet and begin rummaging inside until I find the small wooden box. Obviously, I know this was planted, because it certainly was not here when I left. Nevertheless, the contents of the box must be destroyed immediately. Katniss could never see what was inside.

I hate lying to her ... hate ... but just like in the past, the only lies we told each other were for the other's protection. I try to convince myself that this is the same thing.

Especially since she'd said she would kill anyone who tried to hurt me.

And there is an increasingly good chance that the person who tried to hurt me was her father.

Because what I'd remembered when I stepped off the train in District 12 ... was that one of the things I'd learned in the Capitol - as well as various forms of how one could be tortured - was that Katniss Everdeen's father was still alive.