Disclaimer: I own nothing.
**CHAPTER CONTAINS BRIEF M CONTENT**
Chapter 52
Katniss
It's Peeta who answers the door. There are no guards. There are no handcuffs.
It's just Peeta.
"Hi," he greets me cordially. He sends another nod toward Prim, who bounces eagerly behind me on the balls of her feet.
"Hi," I echo, releasing the air that has built up in my lungs as I do so.
Clear eyes, sincere smile, well-rested…he looks better than he has looked in months. I almost cannot believe that he's real, that he isn't some illusion set up to trick me.
His demeanor brightens significantly at the sight of the baby in my arms when she coos.
"Hey, big girl!" Peeta greets Arden cheerfully, holding out his arms and gazing at her with what can only be described as pure adoration.
The smile he wears nearly splits his face when Arden starts to talk back. We exchange her quickly, both of us paying meticulous attention to where or hands could touch, and he handles her with newfound ease.
What took me months to master, Peeta grasps in seconds.
It all seems to come so naturally to him, as if fatherhood is a trait that is built into his genetic makeup. He knows exactly where to place her on his hip, starting to bounce from his knees as soon as she grows fussy at the disruption. He gently kisses her forehead, and matching blue eyes stare at each other. He is relaxed, calm. There doesn't seem to be a trace of venom in his features.
"Ta!" Arden squeals, slapping her tiny palm against his cheek. Now almost five months old, she's become a master at communication. She responds to the sound of my voice, she finds delight in repeatedly dropping things and watching me pick them up for her, and she uses her expressive facials to indicate when she's happy or miserable.
She's becoming a person before my eyes. A perfect, unharmed little person.
"Ta!" she shouts again jubilantly when Peeta beams.
'Ta', I assume, comes from a combination of hearing 'Peeta' and 'Daddy' so much around him now. It started out as one of her many, many syllables, but as soon as she would come close to him, or a picture of him, or even his door, 'Ta' would be all that anyone within a mile radius could hear.
After talking with both Madge and Johanna, I had decided that allowing him the opportunity to get to know our daughter like I do could be good for all of us. So, while I was in training and Peeta was on a break from his regime, Arden started spending her afternoons in his compartment.
Now, I see that the playdates have done wonders for their relationship.
Peeta's grin is amplified by the welling of tears in his eyes, which crinkle at the edges from smiling so hard, at her ability to recognize him. Arden's chubby cheeks spread as she mirrors his wide grin with one of her own.
"Yeah, Sweetie," Peeta says softly. "It's Daddy."
I feel Prim's all-knowing gaze on my backside before her hand finds mine. She squeezes my hand gently, reminding us both that all of these steps are in the right direction. Slowly, Peeta and I are patching ourselves back together again, and Arden is the thread that weaves between us both.
Our daughter is absolutely smitten with Peeta. His runs his fingers over the slight bulge of her belly and watches in awe as she erupts in tinny laughter, bubbles of leftovers from her last feeding spilling onto her lips and down her shirt.
Instinctually, I roll my eyes at her mess, which I am all too used to after months of cleaning up after it. I rush to my daughter's aid, spit rag readily hanging out of a pocket in the diaper bag Plutarch had insisted on my prep team making for me.
But Peeta's already there with a rag of his own, wiping at her little pink lips with attention and care. None of this looks like a chore for him. The spit up doesn't even seem to faze him or his gag reflexes like it once had for me.
And I know it isn't a contest. I just wish I were as inherently good as he is at handling our daughter.
"Smells like talcum powder and sounds like people are actually having fun…must mean Squirt's here!" Haymitch cuts in as he turns the corner of his shared bedroom with Peeta.
The baby cheers and wriggles in Peeta's arms at the sight of the scruffy older man, eager now to be doted upon by her favorite sarcastic drunk.
Haymitch willingly plucks her up and elicits more giggles from Arden when he makes a goofy face—puffing out his cheeks and widening his eyes. I cannot help but smile at the interaction. Even Haymitch is wrapped around her little finger.
When my gaze wanders over to Peeta, I note that he is smiling at the exchange between our Mentor and our daughter as well. Arden yanks the beanie off of Haymitch's head and stuffs it into her mouth. Haymitch's low, gruff laugh fills in the cracks of whatever air hasn't been sucked out of the cramped compartment by the two tense parents of the little girl.
My communicuff beeps, reminding me that Quiet Hours are upon us. I have to be up for training at five-thirty in the morning, and I can already feel the exhaustion and ache anchoring in the marrow of my bones.
I haul the heavy bag off of my shoulder and almost aggressively shove it into Peeta's vacant arms, babbling about childcare as I perform the actions.
"I should be heading out, but here's everything she needs for the night…bottles, diapers, toys, blankets…her pacifier went missing the other night, so you could easily use your finger if you run it under hot water for a minute. If I forgot anything, or there isn't enough of something, I'm just down the hall…Really, if you need anything, don't hesitate to find me…"
"Katniss," his voice is soft, soothing. "I'll be alright."
My gaze volleys back and forth between his lopsided smile of assurance and our child, who has already tossed Haymitch's hat on the ground and is screeching with delight over his grumbling while he bends to pick it up.
"We'll be alright," he adds for good measure. And I am unsure as to whether he is referring to Arden and himself…or if he means that eventually, as these nightly visits continue and our trust in each other begins to rebuild itself, he and I will be okay.
Staring into those blue eyes, clearer than a cloudless summer sky, I nod.
Regardless, I leave with Prim knowing that I believe him when he says we'll be alright.
As soon as the virtual Capitol city block fades away, I am told that I passed the final exam.
In Command, Plutarch tells me that along with Gale, Finnick, my film crew, Boggs, and several other soldiers, I will be on a team of sharpshooters. We're called the Squad 451, or the Star Squad.
We leave tomorrow for the Capitol.
Having thrown myself into training for the exam these past few weeks, I suppose I lost track of the dwindling time left on my calendar.
Plutarch yammers on some more about the mission, typing quickly into a keyboard on a device that comes to life with beeps and bright, blinking lights. He calls it a Holo. Heavensbee then talks some more about what we'll be facing in the Capitol.
Though I strain to keep paying attention to his talk of pods and mutts and traps, my eyes remain trained on the clock.
I've got less than twenty four hours left with my family before this mission puts my life on the line once again. Here, the odds won't be the same as they were in the arenas. Any number of us could survive, or could die in battle.
When it comes to war, the odds are in no one's favor, and there is no real Victor.
Finnick lingers with me after the meeting is let out. There is a soft, sad glint in his eyes. His fingers itch for a rope that has been long abandoned.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he jokes, completely beside himself, with a faux Capitol accent.
"Let the Seventy-Sixth Annual Hunger Games begin," I finish with a scornful laugh leaving a foul taste on the tip of my tongue.
Finnick's smile quickly fades. "We can't tell them about what we're really doing, you know."
I swallow that truth like a bitter pill and nod. Prim, my mother, Madge, Annie, Arden, Peeta…all people I may have to say goodbye to without any explanation.
But they're all people I can save if I carry through with this mission.
"They should know as little as possible. It's safer that way…for them…"
He sighs when he spots the barely concealed cracks in my composure as I speak. I should know by now that the two of us stopped trying to be stoic around each other long ago.
"Katniss," Finnick says, drawing slowly nearer. "Katniss, you don't have to go…your daughter…"
"Has her father now. And her aunt and her grandmother and Madge and Haymitch and even Annie. If losing her mother means she gets to live without her name in a Reaping Bowl, then it's a chance I'm going to have to take," I tell him sternly.
As much as the selfish emotions inside of me beg me to run far away from Command and hideout through the rest of this war with my family, the Tribute, the Victor, and the soldier in me knows that this mission has been what everything up until this point has been leading up to.
Finnick squares me off my grabbing either of my shoulders. His palms radiate warmth through the fabric of my uniform.
"Then go be with her. That's where I'm heading." He winks, the nod at his evening plans with Annie lessening the tension, the fear, the anxiety in the room greatly. I snort, whack him on the shoulder, and tell him to keep my daughter out of his perverted euphemisms.
"And one more thing," Finnick adds just as I reach the door. He smiles, the pearly whites that used to send women swooning coming out for a special occasion in order to comfort me. It's rare that he smiles like this anymore, unless it's for Annie.
"Don't forget to tell her how much you love her."
I tell her I love her about a thousand times, but a thousand doesn't feel like it's ever going to be enough.
We sit together on the couch, the compartment vacated by Johanna, who now recovers in the psych ward of the hospital. I resent the fact that they had to kick salt in the fresh wound of her Capitol torture in the Block; she trained just as hard as I did. She deserves to go on this mission.
Prim lies on a mound of blankets below the sofa. Something about her quiet refusal to leave for the night tells me that she doesn't buy the flimsy skeleton of a mission plan I had to offer her and Mother.
I hold Arden close to my chest, and in between whispers of 'I love you' and kisses, I sing her favorite lullabies. The attempts at calming are more for my benefit than for my child's tonight. Generally fussy around this time of night, Arden remains oddly placid, complacently sitting still in my arms and nuzzling close to my chest.
Blue eyes stare curiously up at me through Peeta's long lashes as I begin to sob at the thought of losing the chance to be her mother. Something I thought I would never want now seems to be the one thing I want least to give up.
"Prim and my mom think I'm just going to shoot a few propos. Show my face, let the people know I'm there and watching. They don't know that there's a chance I'll be in danger of some traps that are set up where we're filming…but I wanted you to know, Arden. I want you to know, in case I don't—I didn't abandon you. I didn't want to leave you, but more than that, I didn't want you growing up in a world where you had a target on your back. Know that when I fought, it was for you."
She coos in reply, registering the sound of my voice and not the implication of my words, and begins to grasp at the end of my braid. I let her yank away at my scalp all she wants.
Because nothing could hurt worse than this hole in my heart does.
I decide in that moment that I won't have to leave her to fend for herself without me in this world. Not if I do everything in my power to get back to her.
"I'll be back for you. I'll stay alive for you…I'll do my very best to stay alive for you. You have kept me alive for so long that I can't give up on you. Not now."
She smiles—her tiny lop-sided, goofy grin that I love so fiercely—and I know that my mind is made up.
As we both drift off to sleep, one thought remains: I will try to stay alive for my daughter.
What causes me to wake with panic in the middle of the night is the mutation of the recurring nightmares I have. I am burning alive while Coin holds my crying baby and sister in front of me to watch and Snow holds a fully-hijacked Peeta by the handcuffs, ready to attack.
That's when the sick mantra runs through my head.
I have really no control over whether I live or die.
I check the clock. It's four in the morning. Jostling Prim lightly, I tell her I am going for a walk and lead her and Arden to Johanna's old bed.
Jitters of anxiety, of exhilaration, of the unknown that looms ahead, still shake me as I quickly weave through the underground corridors of District Thirteen, careful not to draw the attention of the guards. I scan the earthen walls as I try to remember everything about the place that has become my new home. Despite the hard times spent underground, this is the place where Arden was born, where Finnick was married, where Prim cured Peeta.
I make my way through the mess hall quickly, trying to avoid the memories of interviews and blowups that all seemed to happen in here.
I pause when I pass the kitchen. The door is ajar, and light pours from the orifice. Nosiness gets the best of me as I lightly push the door open a hair further.
It creaks. There is a sharp sound from the other side of the door. I try to make a clean escape, but it's no use. I hear the footsteps, the thud and the light drag, before I can even act.
"Katniss?"
"Um, hi," I tell him dumbly, my systems now on full alert. "What are you doing up at this hour?"
He runs his fingers through shaggy blonde locks and shoots me a harmless, teasing smile.
"I could ask you the same thing. But from what I remember, you and I don't sleep very often."
"Real," I affirm, getting another pressed smile out of him at the recognition of the game. "Nightmares made it very hard to get more than a few hours a night of rest in. They also don't let you appreciate the fact that your four month old starts sleeping through nights, either."
He accepts this as a viable answer and returns to his station at the island in the middle of the kitchen. In the low-wattage lighting of the room, the blade of a knife stationed at the center of the countertop catches in the lamplight and draws my attention. The blade is long, sharp, and pointed at where his wrists are stationed at either side of it.
Staring at the knife for a few moments, he exhales before beginning to speak.
"I was going to come down here and bake something. I found it calms my nerves, especially when I can't sleep. But someone left this knife out…I forgot entirely what I was supposed to be doing here until you came by. I just got to thinking about how easily something like this could end my life, or someone else's life, really."
For a brief moment, I fear that he is alluding to taking up the cookware as a weapon and impaling me right through the heart with it.
He proves me wrong almost instantly when he grips the knife and gently places it beside a knife holder behind him. Suddenly active, he bends over and hops up on countertops, reaching into cabinets and pantries and refrigerators until he has pulled out an army of baking supplies and made a mess of the room.
Blue eyes, exactly like Arden's, peer up at me with utmost sincerity, and a twinge of expectancy, as he asks, "Well, are you going to stand at the door or are you going to help me with these cookies?"
Everything instinctual within me says Run. Goodness knows I've had enough practice at running from him.
But something draws me to the table, to the hands that intricately measure out ingredients, carefully pour them into a bowl, and knead them with tenderness.
Wordlessly, when the dough has become a consistent glob under his calloused palms, he breaks a chunk of it from the large mound and hands it to me.
We roll out dough together, taking turns at cutting out circles from a makeshift cutter he has come up with from a leftover can of dried fruit. I remain acutely alert, watching him for any signs of an episode, any steps out of line that will lead to an attack.
They don't come. Even when my circles manage to come out misshapen and far from circular like Peeta's perfectly-measured circumferences are, he simply laughs and offers to round out the edges for me.
"So," he says finally, just a hint of tentativeness creeping into his voice. He refuses to look at me as he speaks, keeping his focus on his work. "You're going into battle tomorrow? In the Capitol?"
I stop mid-thought, fingers exerting a pressure on the roller that dents the sheet of cookies in front of me.
"How did you…?"
"Haymitch told me. Because you signed off on letting me be Arden's guardian when she was born in case you can't be around. You haven't changed it, so I technically had to be informed that I would be her primary caretaker for a while."
Despite everything that tells me I should be wary of this, the thought of Peeta being the sole guardian of our daughter, especially should anything happen to her, soothes me. In the weeks following the incident in the mess hall, his medical team and I have been ensuring that he spends more time with her through nightly visitations, sleepovers, and scheduling time for him to spend one-on-one with her while I was in training and he had rest hours.
He's good with her—an expert, even. The way he treats and handles her makes me forget that he was ever absent in her short life.
"I'll make sure I go to Prim or Madge or even Haymitch if something happens," he assures me, knuckles turning white as he digs harder into the flesh of the dough. "I haven't had any incidents with her yet, if we're not counting, um…that first time. But I'll make sure anyway that she isn't in danger."
I nod slowly, even though I know he can't see it. "That's nice to know, Peeta. Thank you."
"Thank you for, uh…for not taking my name off of those forms. Even after I…"
"You're her father, Peeta," I say gently.
"Yeah. Well, thanks," he mutters. Once more, his large hands find solace in toying with the loose consistency of the sugary dough. When it skids against the table in a sloshing heap, he sighs.
"These need more flour. I think that's the problem."
The container of the powdery white substance he seeks is just to my right. It would be inconvenient to have to walk around me to grab it.
"Here, I've got it," I say, starting to reach for the container.
Our hands find the box at the same time, and I feel a jolt—the same electric feeling that coursed through me whenever we pass our child off to each other—run up my arm and into my throbbing head. In keeping up with our unspoken agreement not to look at each other, I start to pull away just as he starts forward toward the box. Instead, we ram right into each other, and as the air escapes my lungs, the open box of flour topples from where our hands have met and down his front.
Terrified of what this run-in might translate to his warped mind, I immediately step back, gripping onto the counter for balance. Under the dusting of flour that coats his light hair and eyelashes, his expression is virtually unreadable. For a moment, I swear that his eyes flicker into darkened madness.
"Peeta, I'm sorry," I apologize hastily, hoping that the tremor in my voice will work to my advantage and keep him from misconstruing any of this as means for attack.
Still looking down at the floor, now coated with snowy white baking flour—along with the countertop, the other baking materials, all of the cookie cutouts, and his entire frontside—his shoulders begin to shake. His teeth show brightly in the stark contrast of the dark room. His fists unravel from balls to limply hang at his side.
When he brings his head up, I see that he isn't shaking with the onslaught of an episode, but with laughter.
It's safe, warm, and inviting. It's the sound of a laugh that I used to know, the sound of the laugh he makes whenever he is around our daughter.
Taking a leap of faith, I join in. I laugh and laugh with him until my sides are sore and he is gripping onto the table for support.
"You—look—ridiculous," I observe through wheezes of laughter. Suddenly, he catches me off-guard when his blue eyes flicker with an iridescent glow of something sinister.
"Oh, do I?" he starts, tone low and menacing beneath the veneer of laughter. I am immediately tense as one of my arrows. He never takes his eyes off of me as he bends over, lifts the box from the ground, and dips his free hand into the container of flour.
He lifts his hand and flicks his wrist in one fluid motion.
In an instant, all I see is white.
It's smattered on my nightgown, caked in the folds of my braid, and flying in fluffy white plumes around my taken aback form.
He's attacked me, alright. With flour. I am absolutely stunned.
Meanwhile, Peeta is pleased with himself. Doubled over in hysterics and still sporting his own coat of powder, he is a sight to behold.
"Now you look ridiculous!" he cries out past his fits of giggling.
The whole premise of us throwing flour at each other during an encounter that could have easily been strained or somber is ridiculous in itself. I have no choice but to break character and join in on the laughter.
It's a testament to how far we have both come.
Testing the waters of this harmless battle, I dive, hands first, into the container if flour and fist two handfuls of the chalky substance.
They're showering Peeta within a matter of seconds.
"Two can play at this game!" I challenge him, laughter rising as he feigns being hit and then reaches for the sugar basket, which is closer to him.
The kitchen becomes a snowstorm of flying ingredients and uncooked desserts in a matter of minutes. A full-fledged food fight sends Peeta and I into giddy delirium, throwing weapons of choice at each other from opposite ends of the counter and making an absolute mess.
It's all fun and games until it isn't a game anymore.
After he lets the roller in his clenched fist drop, Peeta's now tense frame shakes with the familiar tremor I know as an episode. His eyes cloud over with venom, and his teeth chatter as his lips loosely hang around them while he violently inhales and exhales.
"No," he groans. "Not now…"
With a handful of flour sifting through my shaky fingers, I am left with very little options. But I know I cannot run. Not unless I want him on a mad hunt after me while the District sleeps and no witnesses can watch him chase me down.
He falls forward, and his knuckles blanch as he fiercely grips the table. I stay still. Other than the sounds of his labored breaths and of flour draining into a pile at my feet, the room is impossibly silent.
I could cut the tension with that knife I had caught him staring at earlier.
He does not hurt me. He remains glued to his end of the table and keeps the barrier of the counter between us impassible. He rides out the waves of his episode alone, silent voices in his head easing him back to reality until his eyes have returned to their usual shade of blue.
Those eyes are suddenly unafraid to stare at me. Wide and filled with fear, he inspects me for any harm done under the layer of flour that drenches me.
"Are you alright?" he asks frantically, eyes bulging when they spot the roller on the floor and the knife lying beside the holder. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
I quickly shake my head, a snowfall of flour plummeting to the ground as I do so, and rub some of the powder out of my eyes.
"I'm fine."
He breathes. "Good."
"And are you…alright?" I ask.
"I will be," he says. His fingers are still locked in position, curled around the countertop. "Just takes a few minutes to shake it off after it happens."
"You've changed," I observe aloud after those several minutes pass and he unsticks himself from his stationary position. "Months ago, you would have…"
"I know," he finishes, flexing his fingers to remove the nerves that have been frazzled there, "I know. I've been figuring out how to be more like myself—how to curb these episodes—for the same reasons why I don't just take that knife and end all of this suffering now."
"Because of Arden," I say. He is more like himself than ever before whenever he is around her. Anyone who witnesses Peeta as a father can agree with that.
He nods methodically, picking chunks of flour from under his fingernails.
"Arden is…Katniss, she is the one thing I have that is new, that isn't a part of what makes me…well, me. Or at least what I've become. And in that regard, she saved me. But I know that there are other things I have to understand, things about my past that Arden being around for now are really helping me with."
Nearly all of the life inside of me drains out of my pores as his eyes flicker up toward me.
"I've been working hard, really hard, at trying to understand you, Katniss. What you are to me. In part, it's Arden. She trusts you. She loves you. And if she trusts you, then maybe I can as well, like everyone says I used to. But there are…It's also that there are a few memories I have of you that aren't up for debate. They're not shiny. They're real and you confirmed them."
"The bread," I utter, trying my hand at helping him with sorting his clearly jumbled thoughts. And also trying to ignore the way my heart seems to soar at the mentioning of me in an almost positive connotation.
Peeta's nod is terse. He abandons his post at the counter and bravely comes toward me.
"Yeah…but that isn't…that isn't the memory I tend to go back to."
I tense and quietly shift my weight to mask the flowering blush on my cheeks, smearing bright red with the pristine whiteness of the flour.
He is referring to the night in the cellar.
This is the memory he must hold onto when episodes like the one that just afflicted him try and take over his mind. It must help him believe that this strange attraction he speaks of isn't a myth. He once loved me enough to give his body and what innocence he had left away to me. Neither of us spoke again of that evening. The memory is untouched, something even the Capitol couldn't get their hands on.
"That night…you wanted to do it? You wanted to be with me? Real or not real?"
It appears as though it takes all of his willpower to ask the question, as he nervously averts his gaze and rubs his palms on his floury pants as soon as the words tumble from his tightly wound lips.
That hunger from the cave and from the cellar and from the beach overpowers me once again, enveloping me in warmth that radiates from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair follicles. He is igniting me in a way that only he has had the power to do before. This responsiveness is old in my muscles and in my bones, but it always feels like something new when it strikes me in the heart.
Tentatively, I step toward him, until there is virtually no space left between us. His breath is hot on the exposed skin of my neck, stirring up a hurricane of sensations where his exhalations hit. I raise my hand slowly, and although my heart races and threatens to beat out of my chest, I maintain my resolve as he does not shy away from my touch.
Using only the pads of my fingers, I push several strands of hair, covered at the tips by white flour out of his eyes, so that he may see all of me when I tell him:
"Real."
His lips crash onto mine before I can draw my next breath. My hands know exactly where to go, tangling themselves in his blonde curls. His fingers work as well, shakily unraveling my braid until they are able to run through the full length of my raven waves. When his warm palm finds my crown, he tilts head forward and deepens the kiss.
I cling to him. Even when my lungs begin to gasp for air, I latch into the back of his neck, where his hairline begins to meet his spine, and cling desperately to what I can have in this moment of stolen ecstasy.
I want him, just like I wanted him the night we conceived our daughter.
This has only happened once before. But it feels like we've known the word of each other's bodies for years. We are indulgent experts in this arena of guilty pleasure.
Maybe it's because we've both spent a lot of time paying attention while the other was looking away. Or maybe it's because he hasn't been the only one thinking about that night and what it managed to awaken since it happened.
Peeta's warm lips, hungry and inviting, leave a wet trail of kisses down my throat. A low mewl escapes me as I arch against his chest out of desire.
My back hits the countertop forcefully, sending several baking supplies plummeting to the ground below. My exhilarated body ravenously accepts his weight as he hovers above me. Teeth gnash together and lips are bitten as I feel him shivering under the ministrations of the hands that stroke the planes on his back.
Neither of us wastes time with being gentle or polite this time around. The hunger is too demanding to allow any of this to be slow or methodical, like it had been almost a year ago.
Peeta nips at the sensitive skin of my earlobe and I sink my fingernails into his shoulder blades. It feels as though we're both lapping up as much as we can drink in.
Without any fear or pretense, my legs wrap around his waist and I push us back up, so that I am sitting on the counter while he stands, waist in line with the countertop. Kissing his jawline, the hollows of his throat, the pillows of his lips, I distract his senses while my fingers curl around the hem of his white cotton tee shirt.
When I lift the shirt over his head and toss it to the floor, where it lands with a plop and kicks up a cloud of flour, he appears shocked. As if he is contemplating if any of this is real.
Silently, I assure him that it is.
I lower a shaky hand to the center of his chest. Slowly, I begin to map out the shapes of the burns, of the scars, of the remnants of lashes, of the marks of resistance to his restraints. I pay extra attention to the hollowed area in the crook of his arm where venom once poured into his veins. With a feathery touch, I then take the time to run my fingers over the muscles in his abdomen and his chest, carding my way through the blonde hair that resides there.
My hand stops on his heart. The light thrumming under my palm sets my own pulse skyrocketing again.
This time, I lean in and capture his lips in another fervent, smoldering kiss. Peeta's breath catches at my forwardness, but the incoherent moan and the bucking hips in my direction let me know that I have not made a wrong move.
Tongue laving over the sensitive skin of my earlobe and teeth nipping at my collarbone, his hands make their way up under my nightgown, leaving a trail of fire in his wake until his hands grope my tender breasts.
"Oh!" I gasp at his advancement to my chest, heaving through the thin, white District-administered bra under his palms.
Peeta stops momentarily at my vocal response to his move, but I arch against the warmth of his touch through my undergarments, burning with an insatiable need for more contact, for my skin against his own. Peeta's breathing hitches at my response, but he begins to knead me like the dough he handles with such mastery after I start writhing in approval.
Those hands, the hands that skillfully manipulate a paintbrush, the hands that craft delicate pastries, the hands that once wrapped around my throat, the hands that lived in shackles, the hands that hold our daughter close, are now the hands that light me on fire.
Blood roars in my ears as he starts to replace his hands with his mouth. Kisses pepper my lips, my neck, my breasts, my stomach, and just above where I ache most for him.
"Peeta," I keen.
I feverishly grasp at the waistline of his pants and begin tugging while he works my nightgown over my head.
For a moment, he pauses. Blue eyes drink in the sight of me as I sit before him, exposed, stripped down to my underwear, and wanting him more than I have ever wanted anything in my life of hunger and deprivation.
The heat of his gaze sends me wishing I had something more than a coat of flour to cover me up. He must see the scars that criss-cross the length of my bare arms, the burn marks that pucker patches of my remodled skin, the bruising where my broken ribs have just healed, or the stretch marks that cover the expanse of my abdomen, and feel disgust that he is about to have sex with a maimed creature.
"You're…you're beautiful," he whispers, the utterance shocking us both.
And for a moment, it's there. That look that he used to give me, the one he now reserves for our child, flashes across his features in just enough time for me to catch it.
I'm about to rid him of the next layer of clothing when I am violently pushed back down against the surface of the table. Peeta hisses a slew of deprecating curses to himself as he stumbles back and retreats from where I lie on the counter, nearly naked and gasping for air.
"I'm sorry," he says. He repeats the apology over and over as he shucks his pants back over his hips, struggling and tripping a bit as he battles getting the prosthetic through the leg of the pants while he apologizes to me. "Katniss, I'm so sorry."
Crimson flush now heating where his hands have left cold vacancies, I reach for the tangled mess of my clothes as I reply, "It's okay."
"I can't…we can't…" Peeta tells me, burying his head in his hands as he speaks. "I…I didn't want to hurt you. I'm scared that I'll hurt you."
The gentility in his features suggests that he means this in earnest. This is unmarked territory in his road to recovery; if we were to continue, there is no telling when or how the hijacked mode could kick in.
"Peeta," I begin softly, making sure to hold contact with his blue eyes and that he truly sees me when I tell him, "I understand. It's okay."
His features soften greatly at my compliance. "Thank you. I just...I can't. Not yet."
My head tilts forward. "To be honest, I don't think I could either. I haven't…not since that night."
He blinks a few times, processing what I have just told him. "Real?"
"Real. It's only ever been you," I answer.
Peeta swallows hard. "I'll, um, keep that in mind."
Our eye contact is prolonged for just a second too long for it to be comfortable anymore and he begins to scour the room for his discarded shirt.
I take that as my cue to hop off of the counter, dress quickly, and make the escape I should have made a while ago. When my garments are secured back on my body, I steal a glance over my shoulder at his face, still contorted in agony. Guilt pangs in my stomach for making him feel so rotten.
"I should go and get some sleep, with the mission leaving tomorrow and everything," I say, trying in vain to make this conversation anything it is not: nonchalant, casual, painless.
Peeta nods quickly and flicks his wrist toward the door amicably. "Oh yeah, you should be well rested for that. I should, uh, clean this mess up."
"Do you need me to help?"
"No, no…you need to sleep."
"I'll have Prim bring Arden by your compartment tomorrow morning? I have to be in a Command meeting at ten."
"Of course. Ten's good."
"Great, they'll be there at ten."
"Ten it is."
When it becomes clear that we have begun to talk in an agonizingly awkward circle, I turn on my heels and brusquely make my way toward the door.
"Hey, Katniss?"
I don't know what to expect when I turn around. Hands ready to clamp around my neck once more? An advancement toward me in an unstoppable passion to continue where we just left off? A face full of flour? It could be anything with the man who continues to surprise me even when I am on full alert.
"I'll see you when you get back from the Capitol," he says, his lips—puffy from my nips and tugs— curving into a slight smile.
I return the gesture. "See you then."
I leave, hoping that I can uphold my end of the bargains I have made to both him and our daughter tonight.
A/N: Hey everyone! Life has been crazy, so sorry for the delay on an update, but I hope this whopper of a chapter makes up for it. This is a chapter that I had been looking forward to writing for a while and has been one of my favorites thus far, so a lot of time went into making it satisfying for you all. I wanted Katniss and Peeta's mini-reunion to make logical sense, and for that to happen, there had to be a significant level of trust and recovery for them both. So, while I made you wait for too damn long for some Everlark, I hope that this was enough to hold you over before the real stuff comes along! Slow and steady wins the race, my friends. Slow and steady.
Thank you so much for all of your feedback! It means so much to me! This semester has been anything but easy, but I want you to know that you've all made getting through the stress of everything so much easier with all you have to say! Keep it up, and I'll do my best to update asap!
Love always,
-ILoVeWicked
