Initially, Virgilia had requested a list of items that Mr. Heavensbee and her would require for their endeavour, but he had promised to bring all himself. Thus, little preparation needed to be done in advance. Her only expertise in finer handwork came from her own interests in jewellery crafting, hence having added a few instruments she hoped were useful to the table. A hobby that had allowed her to work with designers as well as make gifts for loved ones. However, those creations didn't hold spinning gears inside them that exceeded all complexity she had worked with.

There had been little room for practice without the necessary tools and little that lay on the sun room's dining table as she waited for him. Having gone through the effort to clear the place before he would arrive, Virgilia stood by the windows, far too early, and waited. Her hands had folded before her stomach and her thumbs switched in feeling along the side of her nails. Digging into her skin and releasing her hands. She glanced toward the large clock, five minutes before fourteen, and moved her head to view the door behind her. An empty hallway. Virgilia knew the avoces were moving about, having requested tea when Mr. Heavensbee would arrive and - a branch knocked against the windows as it swung along in the wind. Wind graced the branches and roses all the same, bringing their gardens into motion and taking rose petals along on their journey. Nature awoke anew with the spring season. Luckily, the glass walls of the sunroom kept her from any colder touch.

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her thoughts inevitably turned back to the last time she had seen him. Darkened lights, a long coat, and a smile. One much brighter than she had noticed during the dinner. She tried to remember that very smile, one she hadn't seen in Coriolanus in too long.

Noises stirred up from behind, footsteps roamed about and Virgilia's gaze teared back to the clock. Two minutes before fourteen. The long hallway, patterned in chess squares, echoed two pairs of shoes along. Virgilia's personal palace agent, Gratia, led the way. Covered from head to toe in black, a pin interrupted the sleek design to sport a white rose on her chest. Gratia attracted the smooth lines on her face; those crossing ahead and leaving a pointed chin. The one around her mouth, a straight line only changing to amusement when she wasn't exactly doing her job. An even hairline parting her hair to both sides and ending it right below her ears. The clicking of her heels stopped at the door frame as she moved aside, let the visitor in and disappeared.

There was only a faint recognition that they were alone, for Virgilia's gaze fluttered back to her visitor. There were barely any straight lines, except for his thick eyebrows, and he seemed so strange in the frame of a mansion who fitted right to Gratia - or Gratia to the mansion.

"Mrs. Snow," his head bowed in a formal greeting.

"Please," she gestured toward the many seats, both finding their places around the wooden table with its carved edges and beautifully handcrafted feet. Or so she had been told. He sat down first, and she pulled the chair by his side.

His hands reached out for the few items she had added. Her own pair of hands folded inside her lap, eyes transfixed on his movements. Mr. Heavensbee lifted a silver pair of pliers up and turned it before his eyes. Inquisitive brows tightened against the wrinkle above his nose. Were the materials at least suitable for their endeavour? She grew hesitant in the silence.

"You seem prepared," he observed and looked at her. This was not the first time his gaze met hers and not the last, but the effect was a new one to her. How intense his inquiry seemed. A different type of stare; not one she was used to. His eyes didn't slip, and she was certain he looked for something else. Did he find something worthwhile other than her appearance?

Her nervous fingertips reached out to the pair of tweezers. "I have .. I make jewellery. Sometimes. It's … not like this. Not like fixing a watch.," she replied.

"Wonderful. You have some experience then," he observed. Virgilia didn't finish her thought to correct him for she knew far too little about the complexity of a watch - whether for one's pocket or wrist - and their mechanics were a mosaic of gears working into one another that she surely never ought to understand.

Mr. Heavensbee laid the materials they would work with on the table and some she recognised. A similar pair of tweezers to those she owned and she recognised the longer metals ending in handles as several tiny screwdrivers. The more important revelation came afterward, though, when a package wrapped in grey satine was placed on the table, daft fingers pushing it apart and revealing a golden pocket watch. He slid the object toward her. Virgilia kept her hands below the table, as her view wandered across the golden exterior and its decorative carvings. The clock face hid behind the decorations, but remained visible nonetheless.

"Go ahead."

Her hands lifted above the table and held up the watch in both hands. It was light for all, despite feeling the weight of the interior. Upon pressing at a button on the side, the interface sprung open and revealed the clock face that had remained hidden behind its shell. In its centre, the white clock face gave way for a transparent circle looking inside the inner workings.

"Done?" He asked in a nonchalant manner. No hands tapping on the wooden table, no clearing his throat as to remind her. No, the pretty watch she could look at forever, but she nodded nonetheless. "Making watches is difficult. But what better way is there than to disassemble and reassemble an old one? You will understand its function quickly."

Her lips parted in protest, but he had taken the watch back into his hand - gracing her own without a mere acknowledgement - and turned it around his hand with such confidence he seemed a natural at that.

Mr. Heavensbee was rather quick to explain the process itself, reminding her twice of the importance to place each item, once removed, on the table and not lose sight. Then he paused and his gaze wandered to her hands. She resisted the urge to slip them back underneath the table.

"Did you make those rings yourself?" he asked and leaned forward onto both his arms.

"I-" her eyes widened and her gaze flickered down to the few rings she was wearing. Smooth gold except for one, a thin silver ring. Except for a larger golden ring most either had been shaped differently, entailed some gemstones or displayed adept carvings.

She pointed at the simple golden one: "That one, no, but … the rest yes."

"So you have some fine motor skills," he stated matter of factly. Did she? "Change of plans, then. I explain to you where to start taking the watch apart and you are my hands."

"Your…" she hesitated.

Mr. Heavensbee looked her over, waited, but when she didn't continue he nodded: "Yes. Can you do that for me?"

Virgilia swallowed, not wanting to be responsible for getting this wrong, but what choice did she have?. Eventually, she offered a hesitant yes.

Following the flow of his words proved to be easy, although it tore at her heart to take something so beautiful apart. Every tiny piece ended up across the table - and there were quite so many of those! - while he explained their use. Far too many pieces to remember within the few moments she spent on each before moving along. The wind still knocked against the glass of the sun room and clouds remained heavy over the sky.

She had removed the hour wheel when it occurred to her that asking a question in between his explanations was not impolite as long as she timed her question correctly.

Her lips parted, shaping words ever quietly, working at the question ahead and yet pausing after the initial question word. Uncertain where to go ahead, her head grew dizzy with all she wanted to ask and the little time they had, both to find the momentum to ask and the time itself that seemed running out - even if the watch before them might have stopped. She picked out the next item that he advised her to take and another of his explanations began.

"Mr. Heavensbee," her lips form, louder this time. He stopped, a hum passing his lips, and she felt his gaze on her: "What … How did you … start working on pocket watches?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, a thin smile practiced on her face and awaited a possible answer. His head swayed from left to right, slowly, brows raised and eyes turned upward.

"My father taught me," his voice was low, carrying each word with significance and carrying her along to a different time. At the blink of an eye, Virgilia pictured Mr. Heavensbee's father, surely a man of similar great stature, and she pictured him equally good looking. He continued, but it didn't disturb her thoughts as mind wandered along and pictured him, much younger: "And his father before him and both loved their pocket watches. He taught me how to take them apart and make new ones when I was ten, maybe eleven. What about you? How did you start making your own jewellery?"

It was a sweet image, him quite so young and doing the same as today. And - "Oh," her lips rounded, looking at him and feeling the world embrace her in a new coldness "My mother always wore jewellery. But I was not allowed to wear it. And … then I made my own." She looked down at her hands. They had taken her along to fashion shows and jewellery exhibits. Rarely had she been allowed to touch anything.

"They look exceptional," he said.

"Thank you," she answered and the quiet grew around them. It ought to be her turn to ask questions, but what else could she ask without offending him? Perhaps his childhood memories in watch making were supposed to remain private? She returned to following his instructions and cursed her quietness.

"What other hobbies do you have?" His question emerged through their work.

She bit her lower lip, and eventually: "Flower pressing."

"How come?" his thick eyebrows pulled downward.

"When we married… he likes flowers and I should do something that fits him. Flower pressing, it seemed…" she pauses. No, that did not give her interest justice. Perhaps at first, when she had shown him what she pressed, gifted him a few of her works. He had never put them up, and it had seemed wiser to collect them in a book all together. Removing a thin, longer metal object he had coined the cannon pinion, Virgilia tried anew: "But … Not only for him. They look so beautiful in nature and what a shame they die, one day. His white roses smell and-and live past the winter, but not the rest of the flowers here. You can find them in the back garden and they aren't white, but we have colourful peonies and azaleas and … They die and go wasted without being appreciated or remembered. It's sad, wouldn't you agree? So I collect those I like and press them. I've got a few books upstairs and framed a few, too," She pauses. This was too much talking and how quite thoughtless she had spoken "I like pressing flowers."

He looked at her, simply looked. Was it annoyance? Exhaustion? Surely, would she ever learn how to make watches? Would he ever return? She made a bad conversation partner, that much she knew, especially around those who didn't look like they cared for the most recent gossip in upper Capitol society. He certainly didn't seem the type. But when he spoke, his voice was calm and not at all resentful: "That's thoughtful. I never viewed the existence of flowers as such."

Luckily, they had fully taken apart the watch. He began explaining the process of reassembling it, helped with a few first bits and returned the pocket watch to her hands. Virgilia tried to follow his instructions, but his voice blurred away as she wondered about him. So much he seemed to know about watches and all they had talked about during the dinner with her husband.

"Have you heard about the Cardew family?" she blurted out, knowing quite well what had happened.

"No," he replied flatly. There was no passion in his voice.

"Oh."

She explained the rumours to him, mixing between facts and speculation on the recently deceased parent. Virgilia contemplated the implications for the remaining family members, but he didn't answer her more than returning a few words of confirmation that he was listening. Eventually, they returned to his explanations about the parts they were putting together and he turned to explaining the precision needed to produce such fine gears.

And then the inevitable happened. In truth, she had only ever entertained important guests or wives of politicians and statesmen. All of them had been interested in small talk and gossiping, but Mr. Heavensbee was no such guest.

" … And that's quite fascinating how our understanding of time is shaped by the human interventions of watches themselves. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I-" she looked up. Her head filled with words that didn't shape to a clear sentence. Words that wanted to come out, but stuck in her throat and reborn merely in a poor attempt at breathing. She had gotten used to the quiet at this very table when Coriolanus and her ate breakfast together. No one spoke more words than necessary, and least would he share such thoughts and ask for her opinion.

Worse was the curiosity dying in Mr. Heavnsbee's eyes. No answer returned except for the heat in her cheeks and panicked eyes staring. Worst was his kind smile as he returned to cleaning an oddly shaped metal piece. "You surely didn't invite me to irritate you about philosophical questions," and he stuck to conversing about the topic in their hands.

Oh, she was such a bore, stuck in her mind as she wished him a good weekend and shook his hand. Oh, she was such a bore, kept her awake in a cold bed as shadows of trees cast across her face. Oh, she was such a bore, she recalled at the very same table during a quiet breakfast with her husband. Weren't rumours and pretty jewellery and flowers all she could talk about? How did she ever convince someone so wonderfully smart to sit down with her?

The question stuck with her: How our understanding of time is shaped by the human interventions of watches themselves.

She had cursed time, more than once in her life. When she had been forced to sit down and study family lineages in the Capitol or learned about table manners. Nowadays, she learned to curse quietly, hoping to disappear in the mattress below her back.

But the question was not quite the same, she figured, and tried to draw a connection to how watches would have changed those moments. She thought on his question while cutting down the flowers in the gardens, smiling at the inauguration of a new minister, and when working on a new bracelet.

A week exactly had passed since Mr. Heavensbee had visited. Almost exactly if ignoring the few more hours that had passed and the sun had kissed the horizon in a warm orange. She sat at dinner with Coriolanus who had his head buried in a news report. Images flickered along the lit up screen and she thought back to the question.

Her lips parted, her husband's name formed in her mouth but the voice remained stuck in her throat. Her view wandered to the news report and her hands moved below the table. Coriolanus' back crooked in an odd shape, leaning forward and head bowed low. He moved between consuming the food on his plate to intently watching the screen. Even now, his body bent as such, his posture remained tall and imposing. One thumb pushed against the other before she took the opportunity to speak.

"Coriolanus?" her heart pounded in her chest, the question still in her mind but fading at his sight, words shifting from the order they ought to be spoken in and entangled with the wrong ones.

"Mhm?" he didn't look up. No faint blue eyes that blurred into the white around them. No white smile that never reached his eyes.

"How have we shaped wa-" she shakes her head no "How has time been shaped through … watches?"

He didn't look up. Her quivering fingers stretched underneath the table, wandered along the hem of her dress and met again to dig into the fabric of the white dress.

"I don't know what you mean," he took a bit of his salad that muffled his words and turned the volume of the news up.

Her hands lifted from below and she tried herself at the soup.

Asking the staff at the mansion was no particularly great idea as most seemed busy, too, and an advisor who had been present during the following day had promptly dismissed her question and excused himself for having little to no time while tapping at his own watch. At least he had shown her his watch, she figured, and decided to inquire further. The groundskeeper had huffed about as she found him deeper in the greenhouses. He had talked about time corresponding to when he could return back to the city and go home. Virgilia decided to not disturb him afterward.

She tried to talk to the Avoces, signing the question, but there were too many people at the mansion at any given time and she couldn't find a convenient moment to catch them alone. It was impolite to talk to them, and she knew better than to get them in trouble.

In between her search for an answer, Mr. Heavensbee called again. He had found a watch to repair and had thought of her. That response warmed her heart. Arranging the day far too soon did not, and it arrived with a suddenness she refused to accept. Not that he hadn't smell nice when they sat so close to one another or that his conversations were boring, but there was no answer buried underneath her tongue that she could bring up.

The meeting had been set for a late afternoon, right after a Presidential address to open the next Hunger Games. As every year, she stood by her husband's side while he talked about prosperity or justice or - no, Virgilia didn't remember more than that while he wished the escort's a good journey into the Districts. She shook hands with too many people whose names couldn't possibly all be remembered, hugged a few children who giggled and jumped about when talking to her, and reassured many adults that the decline in fabric production would soon turn around.

It was a great relief to return to the car.

Not so great to know that in an hour Mr. Heavensbee would be back, and she had no answer for him. Surely, he didn't expect her to have one, maybe had already forgotten, but still…

"Quiet today, Virgilia?" Her palace agent, Gratia, opened the door for her.

Panem's crest had been sewed on the seats, and she gladly leaned against the silver eagle. Looking up, Gratia had sat down before Virgilia, her short blonde hair sticking out from below the headrest. Virgilia folded her hands in her lap, nails dug into her gloves, and the question was on her tongue: "Gratia, what does time mean to you?"

"I'm sorry?" Turning a bit, she could make out a scrunched nose.

"Time… a-as in the concept," Virgilia explained. Oh, this was going brilliantly.

She bit her lower lip. Her husband didn't have time, many workers didn't know or didn't want to tell her. Gratia was her best bet, having been her longest palace agent and, despite higher ranking offers, never having left the palace. She seemed the best solution and perhaps she could help Virgilia to figure out a response. Mr. Heavensbee would arrive soon.

"The concept of time? Something happened at the little party down there?" A pair of steel eyes reflected in the mirror onto Virgilia. A look of concern? Empathy? She wasn't sure at all.

"No. W-why? I was only wondering …" She shook her head.

"Last time you wondered about something it was the table setup. Besides, time? Vee, what is happening?" The ring of disappointment in Gratia's voice teared at a false sense of Virgilia's pride.

She couldn't lie to her, no. Cheeks burned anyhow, and it wasn't as if there was a point in keeping a secret from her. Both because Gratia knew about too many things and because there were forty five minutes left until her guest was to return. She didn't quite have that kind of time. So, responding as matter-of-factly as possible: "Plutarch Heavensbee stops by today."

"And?"

"He asked me this question last time … we met. I didn't know what to answer, but I quite want to."

She noticed the flicker of Gratia's eyes. A pull at her lips. Small gestures, all happening so fast and uncertain what they quite could mean. There was an earnestness in her response, though, one that was much appreciated: "Time is what the clock says it is. Or what your training instructor wants it to be, but that's some years ago," she tilted her head "Does that help?"

"Yes.. No… I'm not sure," she shrugged and stared out of the window. The mansion lay further down away from the city where the rich buildings thinned out, replacing themselves with well-cared-for trees and flowers. A longer street that existed solely to impress any visitor. "I don't know what he wants to hear. Besides, most of the answers I heard don't seem like him."

Gratia shrugged: "If he didn't want your opinion, he wouldn't have asked. Maybe you should tell him what you think."

That wasn't a sufficient answer at all, she bit down. Gratia was right, in a way, but what if he didn't end up liking her answer for what it was - coming from her mouth, too? The matter wasn't easily solved like that.

The car parked outside of the mansion and to her great distress the sun was shining just right. Friendly, warm, nice all whilst a storm of indecision waged inside her.

She set up the sun room. Placed all instruments down and let the avoces know that two cups of coffee ought to be prepared. Effort was placed in redoing her braided hair all by herself, just in case some bits had slipped during the ceremony. She chose a new dress and attached the white rose, as per usual, to her right chest.

There was not much time to think about his question again.

"You … last time we met-" she began and paused. His eyes were back on her, ginger brows raised in question and attention all at once. She felt the burn below her cheeks again. It was often there, when speaking up, but this seemed worse. Terrible. The heavy importance placed on her chest, burying and suffocating all at once. Virgilia refused to be a bore: "You spoke about … time and-and the relation of time we have."

"Yes," he answered calmly. Somehow his gaze drifted in expectation, but this didn't feel like her husband looking down upon her words. Far from it.

"I thought about this," her lips pulled apart in an attempt to smile: "I asked around, but no one talked with me. They all… they were busy. They lived by the clock on those days. And-and surely sometimes … I, too. I'm sure there's more than rushing by the clock… expectations we have to-to meet because we live by … the time on our watches. Daily. Yearly. All of our life."

She hadn't looked up, not as much as a fleeting gaze to her conversation partner. Lost in words and the search for them to string together and make sense. She had gazed upon him, but not looked. Not noticed the glimmer in his eyes. The tug in the corner of his lips that shaped into a wrinkle around its edge.

"Very well, Mrs. Snow. You are quite right, we live by the expectations people place on us through time. There can be much joy taken from our lives if we only ever follow those expectations," he paraphrased her words much better than she ever could.. Hands folded in her lap and she sighed. So much from him sounded quite so smart.

They continued on for the day and didn't bother to watch the time. He left thirty four minutes past the hours they had agreed to meet and smiled a goodbye. This felt right. He, too, felt right. She remembered the way his polite hand rested between her shoulder blades. A ghostly touch stayed by her side long after he left. Virgilia was convinced a part of him wasn't quite gone. Not during the dinners with her husband or the official state appearances for the upcoming Games session.

With the Games steadfast approaching, he often visited the mansion on official business. A few times they greeted each other, chatted briefly and he left the taste of his aftershave in the air. Despite her best efforts, his usual calmness around her had been replaced with a hectic motion and the stress of the summer would endure for as long as the Games aired.

In rare moments, they found the time to sit down together and work on a watch he brought. He seemed untroubled then, sitting straight in his chair without his view wandering to a door or a clock. Virgilia mentioned improving the design and making something uniquely theirs which he happily scribbled down in a leather book of his. She wasn't quite certain what he had said afterward, but the word "clever" had been part of his response. She had stumbled over her words, chuckled at such an odd description, and quietened down with warm cheeks. Like his cologne, his words left a mark after he left.

Of course, their conversation had inevitably led to the Games, in-between him talking about the watch's history of a pre-Panem time she never heard much about, and to his great surprise Virgilia confessed a lack of knowledge about recent victors. The Games had been at the margin of her life, in contrast to his experience, and as long as she smiled and looked pretty, talking in detail about them had never been necessary. She promised to watch them this year around to see his success.

Making sure to look pretty during the premiere of the Games, they wouldn't see each other until after the arena brought a winner to light. Throughout, Virgilia made sure to tune in ever so often, her own thoughts led back to the hand that had briefly rested on her back the last time they had seen each other. The very same hand that was pushing buttons to make the Games a spectacle. Did he think of her? Sometimes? Perhaps at least when finding a watch for them to repair? Or in other moments, too?

A slim girl from District 1 won. Blonde, darling smile, and a legacy of her brother as a previous victor, too. She hadn't thought much of the child, but the Capitol seemed to love her. A great story, they said, and the perfect image of a victor, too. To Virgilia, the victory meant a return from the many celebrations of the seasons and the public gatherings to a settled life. She was beloved enough to appear on Coriolanus' side, but much preferred were smaller gatherings at the Palace. Terrible moments had happened there, deaths, too, that faded from her mind whenever she tried to recall them, but at least she knew the people who came in fashionable clothes and with sweet words attached. She knew them and they knew her. No expectations that were not met.

She saw Plutarch Heavensbee during the final celebration, too. After the victor was crowned when Gamemakers, advisors, and everyone else who had been deemed important - Virgilia falling under the last category - attended a celebration of fine wine and a loose evening. He was busy shaking hands, being congratulated for his first season as a Head Gamemaker. She only got to shake his hands and stumble over a brief congratulation. He smiled at her and seemed more at ease than he had ever been. She promised to call him once the attention had wavered to see him again.

And they would.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I want to give brief credit to Bee, with whom I plotted a RPG-friendship between Virgilia and Gratia (originally Grace) and who was kind enough allowing me to "borrow" Grace for this story as her character has become ever so entangled and important to Virgilia's life.