A/N: At the end of Mockingjay (literally the last page), we get the line, "Peeta and I grow back together again." Then we get the epilogue (with their children), which is on the order of 15 years later. It got me thinking about what "grow back together again" could look like for Katniss and Peeta. I love this trilogy, in part because there is nothing superfluous in it - every page moves the story forward. But I found myself wondering what Peeta and Katniss together might look like when they are not fighting for their lives. This is based on the books versus the films (although I think the films are, for the most part, consistent with the books).
Peeta stops by with freshly baked bread, as he does nearly every morning. I inhale the scent of yeast and wheat, still warm from the oven, and feel my mouth start to water. Peeta has become a better baker than his father ever was. His bread is light and and nutty, substantial enough to chew without becoming doughy. It's as good as any I ate in the Capitol and would have been available only to residents of 12's merchant section, back when 12 was divided into the merchant section and the Seam. These days we have no such distinction; no area wealthier or poorer. That's what happens when your district has been leveled by bombs.
I pour two mugs of tea and hand one to Peeta.
"Thank you, Katniss," he says.
I nod and cut a couple of slices from the loaf. There's a jar of gooseberry jam on the kitchen table, made by Greasy Sae from berries I picked weeks ago. I smear one slice with jam and slide the jar over to Peeta. He spreads the jam on his own slice, and we sit and eat bread and drink tea.
It has been this way for the last couple of months, ever since Peeta returned to 12. He brings warm bread and we eat breakfast together - sometimes talking, sometimes silent. I like Peeta's silence. I'm comfortable with it; it's not heavy or judgmental. I don't feel a need to break it.
"Would you like eggs?" I ask, gesturing toward a bowl on the counter. "I have some."
"Sounds good," he replies.
Neither one of us moves. We regard each other across the table and eventually Peeta rolls his eyes.
"You want me to cook them, don't you," he says.
"We both know you're a better cook than I am."
He shakes his head. "You can cook. You just don't want to."
"I can roast game over a fire. That's not cooking. Until you came home, Greasy Sae was doing all the cooking."
He narrows his eyes. "They're eggs, Katniss. Anyone can cook eggs."
I don't reply. He sits for another minute, as if testing my resolve, then gets up with a loud sigh. "Fine," he says, "I'll make the eggs."
"Thank you."
And we both smile because we knew all along that it was going to end this way.
Peeta puts a pan on the stove and pulls seasonings out of the cupboard, more familiar with the things in my kitchen than I am. Soon, the scent of eggs is wafting through the first floor and Buttercup the cat, always looking for a handout, appears. He sits at Peeta's feet and waits.
"Get away from me, you mangy thing," Peeta says. But there is no bite to the words and Buttercup knows it. He need only bide his time and he'll be rewarded.
We eat the scrambled eggs, fluffy and perfectly seasoned. Peeta drops a few morsels on the floor for the cat.
"I'm going hunting first thing tomorrow morning," I tell him, "so maybe we could make it a late breakfast."
He nods easily. "Okay."
Soon we are having supper together too. I tell Peeta it makes sense to combine our resources. There's no point in hunting, gathering and preparing meals for one. Peeta agrees, although he smiles because he knows he is the one who will be doing most of the preparing. Greasy Sae still comes over, but less often because she has begun selling soup again. Enough people have returned to 12 to make it worth her while. I also think she worries less about me since I have stopped looking like a scarecrow and resumed regular hygienic habits. Haymitch sometimes joins Peeta and me for a meal, when he is sufficiently sober and in the mood for company.
Even though I know it's coming, I am disappointed each time Peeta returns to his house for the night. There is something comforting in his presence, something solid and steady. I don't have to pretend with Peeta. He knows who I am and understands what I have been through. And things seem to thrive around him. The primroses he planted when he first returned to 12 are blooming large and yellow. I originally had doubts about them. I thought the reminder might be too much. But I am not my mother, who seems to seek the extremes of loss; either surrounding herself with it, like she did with my father, or avoiding it, like she's doing with Prim. I can accept the pain and occasionally find relief in the good memories.
One evening, while we are eating, I say to Peeta, "I cleaned out my mother's room today."
He lifts an eyebrow. "You did? That was a very...domestic... thing to do."
I shrug and say, "The room is yours, if you'd like."
He puts down his fork. "You want me to live here."
"Yes. It's silly for each of us to have a big house and live in it alone."
He studies me from across the table. I'm pretty sure he understands what this is really about - that it has nothing to do with housing efficiencies. I hope that if he says yes he is doing it for himself, too, and not just to make me happy. I'd like to think my presence brings him the same kind of comfort that his brings me.
"Are you asking Haymitch, also?" There is a twinkle in his eye as he says this.
"Hell, no."
"Oh, good. I was worried for a moment."
"I think Haymitch is fine where he is," I say.
We chuckle and resume eating.
After supper we go upstairs so Peeta can see the room. It didn't take me long to clean it out. My mother took her most precious possessions with her when she fled to 13; the plant book and her photographs of my father. It was quick work for me to pack away the clothes and decorations that remained. The room looks impersonal now, ready for Peeta to make his own.
"You're sure about this?" he asks.
I search his expression to see if thinks the invitation is more than it is, but I see we are on the same page. Neither one of us is ready for something more. We have too much healing left to do.
"I'm sure," I say, "but you should probably know that I still have nightmares. My room is only two doors down. I might wake you up."
He shrugs. "Well, we're even then because I might wake you up, too."
I nod. Peeta has as much right to nightmares as I do, if not more.
He glances around the room once again. "Okay," he says. "I'll bring my things over."
Peeta doesn't move into the house all at once. He brings things as he needs them; clothes, toiletries, cooking utensils. He leaves his painting supplies as well as his finished paintings in his own house. When I ask him why he says, "You told me you hated my paintings."
That's true - I did, before the Quarter Quell. It seems a long time ago. I shrug. "Maybe some of the oldest ones...you know, from our first Games. But I like watching you paint. And I have an idea for something new." I tell him about my mother's plant book and explain my idea for our own book - a place where we can record things that cannot be trusted to memory. Prim with her goat. Wiress's impish smile when she knew she had outsmarted someone. Even Peeta's mother.
"I can write the text, but I don't have a lot of photographs," I say. "You can do the drawings."
Peeta nods. "I like the idea, Katniss. I'll be happy to help."
"Thank you."
He brings his drawing and painting supplies over the next day, storing them in a corner of the living room. Haymitch, who always has a sharp eye, notices them when he joins us for dinner that evening.
"Is Peeta doing some decorating?" he asks.
I tell him about the book.
"I see," is his only reply.
"You could help," Peeta suggests, calling from the kitchen. "You must have a lot of memories from before Katniss and me. People who deserve to be remembered."
Haymitch shrugs. "I'll think about it."
I don't try to persuade him. Haymitch doesn't respond well to nagging. He comes to decisions on his own, in his own time.
The meal is good - goose and potatoes that Peeta has roasted to perfection. We eat slowly, enjoying the flavors and appreciating the fact that the meal is something we have prepared. For so long we were either starving or eating food allotted to us by someone else; the rich delicacies when we were training in the Capitol, or the bland, regimented meals given to us in 13. It is a luxury to have a choice - to have control over what we eat.
Haymitch pushes his chair back from the table and stretches out his legs. "That was delicious," he says. He grins at Peeta. "What do you say we go now and leave Katniss with the dishes?"
Peeta smiles, but shakes his head. "I can't do that, Haymitch. I live here."
Haymitch frowns. "You do? When did that happen?"
"A couple of weeks ago."
"Wow, where the hell have I been?"
Probably in bed with a bottle, I think, but I don't say it.
Haymitch turns to me and narrows his eyes. "You better not be toying with him."
I don't pretend to misunderstand. "I'm not," I say. "Peeta and I are done with games - for the rest of our lives. We know where we stand."
Haymitch glances between me and Peeta and seems satisfied. He nods. "Well, that's okay then." After a minute he adds, "This is a good thing. I'm happy for you both."
I'm happy for us, too, I think. It's a strange notion. For so long I have thought only about survival; surviving the Games, surviving the war, surviving the losses. Happiness, even for a fleeting moment, seemed out of reach. But then, that is Peeta's gift - the idea that happiness is possible.
I smile at him and start gathering the dishes.
