FIVE

Chapter One: Dreams

Song: Slow Life - Grizzly Bear

I think I know what's on your mind
A couple words, a great divide
Waiting in the wings, a small respite
Crowding up the foreground from behind

The winter has begun to die.

I feel it as I trudge through the woods. The crisp sound of crunching snow has softened to squishes as last traces of frozen water soak into the ground. The sharp piercing scent of cold that burns the nose has reduced to pine, dirt, and sun. Branches drip, and faint songs of returning mockingjays echo through the trees.

Sometimes Peeta and I still come here, to think, to breathe, but mostly for food. Although it has been 7 years since the uprising, and District 12 is mostly restored with marketplaces and shops to do the hunting and gathering for us, Peeta and I take pleasure in venturing into the unknown, into the quiet, and providing for ourselves. He gathers herbs and berries while I shoot squirrels. He'll pick me wildflowers while I trap rabbit. It's a nice enough arrangement, although his artificial leg still causes problems in scaring off even the smallest and slowest of prizes.

Which is why today I come alone. Squirrel and rabbit are sufficient, but lately Peeta has been mentioning venison, speaking of a variety of casseroles, stews, and marinades to go with his fresh baked bread. However, acquiring venison is a task that requires more time, more stealth, more silence. It has been years since I've taken the initiative to track one down. Its not often I come here alone, and Peeta doesn't approve the few times it happens. In the beginning of our healing process, and even now at times, I have been overcome by memories which riddle me non-functioning, hiding and trembling behind trees from half-imagined nightmares. They are triggered by the slightest of things, such as the draw of a bow or a sharp crack of a twig underfoot. Unpredictable, but manageable, especially if Peeta is there to whisper sweet assurances into my ear, for me to be folded into his strong arms and feel safe.

I tell myself the trauma will not happen, because today has a purpose. Today, the goal is to be the provider for our home, to contribute something tangible.

In the woods I stand, taking in the birth of spring, the warming of winter's bane.

Hours pass with little success, as my tracking skills have gone largely unutilized. I see prints, but find it difficult to determine how old they are. I see traces of life, but remain unsure of where they would have gone next. It used to be so easy.

Disgruntled, I find solace underneath a pine tree with large, fanned out branches, taking in the clean smell. Next to my feet, there are brown hoods of mushrooms and some shoots of green. Wanting to return home with at least something, I crouch down and pluck some up, shoving them into my pockets.

I bend back a green leaf to grasp the last mushroom when I hear it- a slight movement, a shifting of something bigger than my usual prey.

My head lifts an inch at a time. This part comes naturally. Carefully I remove an arrow out of my quiver and align it just so, holding my breath as I draw the string back, twisting to the left, looking and aiming for my prize.

I see her, and she is beautiful. Slender neck, long russet face, white ears framed with a pattern of black. She stands alert yet unsuspecting, stationary between two curving trees which form a wedding arch of sorts over her. A mockingjay sings, wind blows gently through the forest, ruffling her tail, and I can't help but think that forty yards away, this doe has been delivered to me, practically giftwrapped. It is an easy kill.

My mind conjures Peeta and the pride that will shine in his smile when he sees what has been accomplished, when he hears that I finished my task with no breakdowns.

My breath releases in one steady exhale, muscles relaxed, fingers poised to release. I stare down the shaft of the arrow, moving it slightly to the right so it is straight over her heart.

In that moment, another figure chooses to emerge from between the trees. It is less discreet than the doe- small, soft, on wobbly legs. White spots speckle its tan back, and protruding black eyes look up to the doe next to it, expressing such trust. It is a fawn.

Momentarily, my muscles freeze up while my heart races faster, conflicting thoughts racing through my head.

In the grand scheme of things, what is a deer? What harm does it do if I rend a small fawn motherless?

Visions of Prim fill my head, looking up at my mother, at me, with those same scared and new eyes. I see Finn, Annie and Finnick's son, so innocent and learning to walk on wobbly legs, unaware of the dangers of the world he was brought into, unaware of the caliber of his parents' pain. I see the arena, full of children with no mothers there to protect them. No fathers to defend them. And, like this fawn's fate will be if I remove its caregiver, they die.

This fawn is not a human. These woods are not the arena of the memories that haunt my waking and sleeping hours. The fawn potentially could survive. It could make it. Perhaps it would be stronger because of the independence it learned in its youth.

I could still shoot.

I could.

I probably should.

It would be one shot for Peeta's sake; for our little family of just the two of us. He deserves something nice. I owe him that much.

But I can't. I won't. And I don't.

My fingers unskillfully release their grip on the bow, the string twanging as it snaps back into place, the arrow shooting off into the ground 10 feet before me with a low thud. Soon after, its followed by a cry of birds nesting in the trees around and whooshing of flapping wings as they flee.

Panting, I watch both doe and fawn, now alerted and terrified, sprint off into the distance, away from me, away from danger.

"Good", I think. "Be safe". Exhausted, I sink down, tuck up my knees, close my eyes, and breathe deep.

...

When my eyes open again, the sun is setting over the mountains and the temperature dropping quickly. I rub my eyes and stand, wordlessly and thoughtlessly turning back towards home.

Coming up to our house in the ornate and recently outdated Victor's Village, the sun long gone behind the mountains now, I see Peeta before he sees me. He sits on the front stoop, head in hands. His hair is disheveled, most likely from pulling at it in worry. After five years of marriage, it is something seen time and time again. It is his unconscious coping mechanism when I have nightmares, when he has nightmares of his own, when I am late coming home, or when after a nasty bout of drunkenness Haymitch won't answer the door.

In retrospect, I was only gone for a day- early afternoon to late evening. However, this is what we do. I don't hold it against him for possibly overreacting, for my own mind does the same. Sometimes, when Peeta is at the bakery and smoke rises in the distance, my mind goes crazy. I dream up firebombs, the bakery burning down, peacekeeper's fire guns. Thankfully, we're nearly always wrong... but we have known too much destruction to shove nightmares aside as an impossibility.

"Peeta?" I say softly, standing a few feet in front of him.

His head jolts up, and relieved yet concerned eyes look me up and down, most likely inspecting for damage externally inflicted or by my own doing. There is not a scratch on me, just empty hands and an embarrassed look in my own eyes- in equal parts for being so late, making him so worried, and for my miniature breakdown over an innocent deer I should have cared nothing about.

Faster than I can say anything else, I am cemented against him, my head in the nape if his neck, both arms holding me close to him. His lips press to the top of my head and I exhale, letting our miniature reunion play out.

"Katniss," he says, touching my face gently, drawing it back to look into his. "I thought… I thought… you were gone so long." He shakes his head in thought, most likely trying to rid himself of the ideas of my fate. Who knows what the darker parts of his mind conjured up- mauled by a bear, kidnapped by rogue supporters of the fallen Capitol, stung by tracker jackers, or simply me curled underneath a bush, waiting to be found my muttations, another tribute, acid fog, or worse. "Are you alright?"

I bite my lip and nod my head. "I fell asleep in the woods."

"Oh." Another bout of confusion crinkles his brow. "Why didn't you let me know you were going today? I've been in need of some fresh mushrooms."

I draw back from him, reaching into my pockets for what little I brought home. "Here," I say, placing the light brown mushroom in his hand. I smile slightly, searching his eyes. "It was meant to surprise you. A gift. I didn't return with much."

His fingers close around the mushrooms and he studies them for a moment before looking back up at me. He smiles and chuckles as his lips gratefully press into mine for a lingering kiss. "Well, thank you." He keeps his hand steady on my lower back as he turns to lead me inside.

On the dining table is laid an ornate meal- round buns with crusted yellow cheese , shortbread cookies with iced poppy flowers. Candles, the wax burned low, poised in the middle of our too-big dining table. I inhale, and beyond the smell of the fresh baked bread and the light sweetness of the dessert, I smell something full and heavy.

I peer into the pot to the right. It consists of carrots, potatoes, and meat… although definitely not turkey, squirrel, or rabbit. Befuddled, Peeta sees my confusion and sits down in the chair across from me, a happy and proud smile on his face.

"Well, Mrs. Mellark, while you spent all day traipsing through the woods, I went into town and bought us some venison. I thought I'd make that stew we were talking about the other day."

Venison. He bought us venison. And I left him for a day only to come back empty-handed. Haymitch was right- I'd never live long enough to truly deserve him.

He serves me a ladle of the hot stew, studying my face. He can see my thoughts displayed like a banner across my forehead.

"What's wrong?"

"That's what I meant to get you today."

His lips curl up into a smile, placing a hand on mine, which is grasping my spoon tightly. "Thank you for that. Briley down at the market said deer have been scarce this year."

My forehead creases. "But that's not even it. I saw one. It was perfect, I could've gotten it so easily. But I couldn't."

"What do you mean?"

I hesitate. I wasn't going to tell him this part. Not with the gentle subject matter, the slight breakdown it brought earlier in the day. But before I can stop myself, I'm twirling my spoon around in the stew, explaining. "I had a doe in front of me, but then her fawn stepped out too. I couldn't do it."

"I understand." He's thinking about something deeper. I can tell by the way his lips are pursed and the tender tone of his voice.

In a rush, I spurt out a torrent of words, trying to explain myself. "It's not like I couldn't because of the law or anything, we haven't had hunting restrictions since before the uprising. I just couldn't leave that fawn without its mother. I don't even know what came over me. Why do I always do that with the littlest, most inconvenient of things?"

Peeta looks at me a long time, silent. Is he mad I didn't just shoot the deer? That's not his character. Is he thinking I meant he was included in the category of most inconvenient things? He should know by now that I have chosen him. Is he thinking something else, something else that we've talked about before, and that I've adamantly shut down time after time? Surely he wouldn't.

He opens his mouth, purses his lips once more in second-guessing. I can tell he is mustering up his courage as he joins me in stew-stirring, drawing patterns in the broth and pushing around carrots and potatoes with the back of the metal utensil.

"You do that type of thing because you have a good heart. A beautiful heart. And you care deeply for things, whether or not you'd like to admit it." Peeta tenses a moment, then relaxes. He looks straight at me, dropping the spoon from his hand halfway into the forgotten stew. "Katniss, what would you think of having... of caring deeply for something like a baby of our own?"

Soup twirling stops, and immediately my whole being tenses. I thought he had locked away any hope that I would ever agree a long time ago. But his eyes plead with me to answer, a faint hope allowing itself to manifest in his eyes. He wants this, deeper than I realize.

"Peeta," I breathe, "you know I can't."

He nods slowly. He remembers. "I think you'd be a great mother."

"No. This world is too broken. Too dangerous. And I'm too scared."

"So am I," he murmurs, "I shouldn't be allowed to take care of anyone."

"You would make the best father." This is said truthfully, as I can see it when I close my eyes. He could have a daughter he'd waltz around the kitchen, standing tippy-toes on top of his shoes. He could have a son to hoist above his shoulders while the little one laughed, knowing his father was so trustworthy and warm. But it will never be. He chose me... me with all my memories and fears. Surely he knew the consequences of that choice before the decision was made?

"I tried to kill you at first, Katniss. Are you saying that is not broken, dangerous, and scared?"

I hesitate. "But you wouldn't do that again. You grew. You overcame."

A smile toys with the edge of his lips. "Yes, you're right. Every moment fighting my instinct, reshaping how I thought, taking risks… it was worth it." He looks lovingly at me now. "It was worth it because now I have you. And you can do it, too."

"I don't think I can take that risk," my voice breaks. "I don't think this world can change."

Peeta gets up and in two side steps comes to my side of the table. I look at him, shocked, as he gets down on one knee before me. It reminds me of a proposal. It breaks my heart. He holds both of my hands between his- so loving, gentle, and able. "Katniss, I think deep down; despite the darkness of this world, despite the restlessness of society, you long to care deeply about something, about someone."

"I care about you," I whisper, willing this conversation to end.

"And I care, need, love you more than I think you still grasp." He is speaking from the heart again, in the way I never know how to reciprocate. "But I'm talking about something else, something more that completes us."

I can see where he's going, and feel my resolve start to waver. Unbridled desire is in his eyes, and I feel the shaking of his hands, knowing how vulnerable he's being, how much his heart longs for this- but not just any child. What Peeta wants is our own child, a beacon of hope proving to not only the world, but to ourselves that life can come from tragedy, that phoenixes truly do rise again.

Maybe Peeta is right. Maybe I do long for that.

Out of nowhere, pictures assault my mind, memories drug up from the darkest caverns of my heart, ricocheting off every hope I had just allowed myself to think. I see an explosion of the mines, leaving my family without a father. I see mothers weeping as their children, year after year, are sent to the games to never return, leaving mothers helpless to defend them while they watch their little one being murdered. I see children used as a decoy around Snow's house, blown up by the uprising. I see destruction, war, and hatred. And in the middle of it all, I see my own face. I was a part of so much of it. I caused so much of it. How could a child be safe with me? With anyone? Not in this world.

My answer comes after much silence, much thinking once the swirling of torment has stopped.

"No." With that, I stand and turn away, leaving Peeta knelt on the ground with his dreams.

My feet feel heavy as I trudge towards the stairs, tears threatening to spill over. I haven't cried, not for a long time, and it puzzles me why in this moment, in the absence of a yes to having a child with Peeta, I feel empty. I look over my shoulder and see him, no longer kneeling, no longer hopeful. Instead, he sits on the floor, shoulders hunched, our stews still steaming above him. I notice he covers his mouth with his hands, striving to muffle his cry.

I did that to him.

I feel nothing as my body autopilots straight to bed, trying not to think. However, I can not stop the new rush of accusations, as feeling rushes back to me in waves.

I try not to count the ways am incapable of providing Peeta with what he desires.

I try not to see his devastated frame on the ground, mourning lives he will never know.

I try not to hate myself for being the one to once again cause him such pain.

Trying to sleep is futile, but I pretend to be asleep when Peeta comes in hours later. There is a distinguishable thump as he removes his boots, and the rustling of fabric as he unbuttons and removes his shirt, again as he pulls back the covers.

My eyes stay closed, but I feel him staring at me. I feel his knuckle grazing my cheek tenderly. Goosebumps rise on my arms as he moves stray hairs from the side of my face. I notice the intake of breath when he sees the shiny train tracks of tears that streak down my face, giving away the secret of my inner turmoil. His lips are soft and warm as he presses them to my forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

He is sorry? I bite my tongue to keep from letting out a soft cry. No, Peeta should not be sorry. I am the one who is broken, who is ruined.

When at last my eyes finally do close, as if it had been waiting for this moment, all I see is a fawn.

Ending Notes:

I know you were probably expecting her to say yes. For a moment I almost had her say yes as well. However, it isn't time. Funny how these type of things seem to write themselves? Stay tuned.

And, as always, comment, review, critique, suggest. Thank you!