Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the Hunger Games series. All names, places, and characters belong to their respective owners. Sections clipped from Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. Big thanks to my beta, dandelionlass, for the quick turn around of this chapter! You can find her on tumblr and ao3!

Two Months Prior

Thread's voice thickens. "No," he says, narrowing his eyes at me, "I hit a thief."

"Leave," Peeta says, staring at the man. He's calmer than I'd expect him to be, his voice, while measured, has an almost mannered amicability about it. "Get out of my sight before I do something we'll both regret."

Thread's eyes flit between me and Peeta, a stunned expression covering his face as he moves away from me. "The girl was a public nuisance—" he says, starting to defend himself.

"Sir," Peeta says with an authoritative turn of the head, "forgive me here, but did you not beat that young man and strike that young woman under my name? Did you not drag two of my citizens to the public square on some aggrandized charges of thievery?"

Thread stutters.

"I thought so," Peeta says, tightening his jaw. With a step towards me, he dismisses the man. "Get out of here. I have other things to deal with."

Thread swallows sharply, but agrees nonetheless, slouching off in the opposite direction. But before he can go to far, Peeta's at his side, swiftly removing the gun from Thread's hand and whispering a threat that barely registers on my ears. "You should have never touched her, Romulus."

Shouting at nobody in particular, Peeta raises his voice. "Somebody get Mrs. Everdeen."

It's in these moments that I first see that part of Peeta that's Mr. Mellark. I've wondered on some level how he could ever run a railroad company, chalked up his involvement in business to being nothing more than an heir. But I see now, as he directs the people around us, his voice clear and authoritative, his demeanor miles away from anything I know, that Peeta is more than the man who spends time in my bed. More in what way, I'm not exactly sure.

They load Gale up on some type of counter, men from the Seam, colleagues, perhaps, rushing to carry him in the direction of our house. I don't dare go near Gale, opting to stay several paces behind the crowd that forms around his body. I can't bear the thought of seeing him like that, of smelling the coppery sting stench? of blood or wondering what kind of damage he's going to wake up with.

It's only when we get to the house that I take a look at him. My mother's sent everybody out and is already commanding Prim before I even have the chance to breathe.

I'm filled with awe, as I always am, watching her transform from a woman who calls me to kill a spider to a woman immune to fear. When a sick or dying person is brought to her ... this is the only time I think my mother knows who she is. In moments, the long kitchen table has been cleared, a sterile white cloth spread across it, and Gale hoisted onto it. My mother pours water from a kettle into a basin while ordering Prim to pull a series of her remedies from the medicine cabinet: dried herbs and tinctures and store-bought bottles. I watch her hands, the long, tapered fingers crumbling this, adding drops of that, into the basin. Soaking a cloth in the hot liquid as she gives Prim instructions to prepare a second brew. My mother glances my way. "Do you need something for your cheek?"

"No, it's just bruised," I say.

"Put some tonic on it later," she instructs. But I am clearly not a priority.

"Can you save him?" I ask my mother. She says nothing as she wrings out the cloth and holds it in the air to cool somewhat.

"He'll be fine, Katniss," Prim reassures me. "His bruises aren't all too bad."

"He has broken ribs and God knows what else," my mother says, "he'll be in a great deal of pain." I'm surprised at her honestly, surprised when she looks up from her work and takes a long hard look at me. "The real thing to worry about is his head. We'll know more when he wakes up."

Hazelle arrives next, breathless and flushed, soap still caking her arms. Wordlessly, she sits on a stool next to the table, takes Gale's hand, and holds it against her lips. My mother doesn't acknowledge even her. She's gone into that special zone that includes only herself and the patient and occasionally Prim. The rest of us can wait. Even in her expert hands, it takes a long time to clean the wounds, arrange a series of bandages beaten flesh, and setting the broken bones.

As the blood clears, I can see where every whip of Thread's gun landed. Bruises are already starting to form, bright blue and purple that will most likely fade to yellow and green over the next few days. I can see the damage to his chest now, the marks against his ribs. How did I miss those strikes, I wonder, as I think back to Thread's assault. I feel anger, then guilt, as I try to multiply the gentle throbbing of my own cheek once, twice, forty times and can only hope that Gale remains unconscious. Of course, that's too much to ask for. As the final bandages are being placed, a moan escapes his lips. Hazelle strokes his hair and whispers something while my mother and Prim go through their meager store of painkillers. There's not much, of course. Drugs are hard to come by out here, and even if they weren't it isn't like we could afford them. Most of the times my mother tries to knock her patients out with liquor, but I have a feeling that might not work in Gale's situation.

Since Gale is regaining consciousness, they decide on an herbal concoction he can take by mouth. "That won't be enough," I say. They stare at me. "You know it won't be enough."

My mother just sighs in response, but out of the corner of my eye I see the look of fear on Prim's face and know that I'm right. "He'll live," my sister says, almost for her own benefit instead of mine. "He'll live, Katniss."

"Yeah," I say, "but for how long?" Nobody responds, and I don't dare press the issue when I catch sight of Hazelle staring at me through tear soaked eyes. She must be thinking about the same things I am. What we'll do with Gale if he doesn't come out right. How on earth any of us are going to afford bills with Gale disposed for weeks, maybe months.

But I suppose there's no point in thinking about those things, not right now, not when making sure Gale doesn't fall to infection is the most urgent issue at hand. So I keep my mouth shut, only saying something when I hear a steady knocking at the door.

"I've got it," I mutter, wrapping my shawl tighter and going to stand up.

My mother nods at me as she and Prim readjust some kind of brace over Gale's chest. What I find at the door, however, makes me wish I had let her answer it. It's not well wishers or town busybodies like I expected. It's him. Peeta.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, low enough that the people inside won't notice. He's wearing the same clothes from earlier, his eyelashes coated with a fine dusting of snow that I've noticed has settled in a thin coating along the Seam.

He blinks at me, his eyes downcast as he extends an amber tinted bottle in my direction. "It's morphling," he says, "for your friend."

Morphling. I'd heard of it before. It's a popular medication, an expensive one at that. Supposedly it is more often used by businessmen looking for fun than those in pain. I didn't want to think of why Peeta might be in possession of such a large quantity.

"Who's there, Katniss?" I hear my mother call out from the house.

"Nobody," I reply, pulling the door tighter around me.

My mother, however, doesn't take this as an answer. Wiping her hands on a towel and coming around to the door she peers out. "Is that Peeta Mellark?" she asks me, eyeing our visitor and nudging the door open wider. "Don't be rude, Katniss. Mr. Mellark, would you like to come in?"

"Thank you, ma'am," Peeta responds, taking a step inside and purposely avoiding the pointed look I give him. When I hand the bottle he's given me over to my mother, she practically croons. "Thank you, Mr. Mellark," she says with a sigh of relief. "You've saved the boy a lot of pain."

Peeta only nods in response. "Anything else I can do to help?" he asks.

My mother shakes her head politely. "This is plenty enough, Mr. Mellark. You better be on your way before the snow comes down to hard."

"Please," Peeta says, folding his hands over. It's then that I notice his knuckles are bloodied. "I like to be useful."

There's a palatable awkwardness in the room as my mother's eyes brush over to Gale. "Sir..." she starts with a sigh, "I really don't think there is any need—"

Before she can finish my sister pipes up, clearly oblivious to any of the finer social delegations involved. "There's always the shed," Prim says, giving Peeta a toothy grin, "that wouldn't take too much time."

"The shed?" Peeta asks, almost hopeful. He ignores me, once again, when I kick the edge of his boot. Don't, I say with a silent scowl.

My mother sighs. "There's a box out in the shed full of medical supplies, it's high up and under some of the winter equipment. We're running out of ointments and rags, but I'm sure Katniss could—"

Before my mother can protest further, Peeta interjects. "No, ma'am. I've got it."

"Well," my mother places a hand on her hip, giving in, "better head out there now before it gets too snowy." Then, eyeing me warily she adds. "Go with him, Katniss."

We trudge out to the shed in silence. The cold is biting, even as we enter the little room. Nonetheless, I refuse him when he offers me his coat.

"I'm sorry, Katniss," he tells him as I turn him down, his voice hollow. "I really am sorry."

I pull a candle out from underneath an empty flour sack and light the wick. "I know," I say, turning away.

"But that's not enough."

He leans back against the rough interior of the shed, taking a moment to squeeze his eyes shut and re-adjust the buttons on his jacket. "You're leaving," I say, "what does it even matter, Peeta?"

When he doesn't respond I speak up. "I was an idiot. I should have never touched you. At least now, now that this has happened, now I know I was in the wrong." Now I know I have no place in his world. Now I know I have no business viewing him as anything more than a hailed overseer.

He takes a minute to reply, but when he does it's not nearly as hollow as his earlier words. "I'm not Thread, Katniss," he says, his voice something akin to a firm hiss. "I'm not Thread anymore than you're those idiots who stood by and watched as Gale was brutalized."

"They were just doing what was right for their families," I defend, whether for the sake of being contrary or out of genuine understanding, I don't know.

"They were being cowards," he spits, with more than a hint of malice. He stands straighter now, his body looming over mine.

"That's easy for you to say," I mutter, turning my head towards the rack of shelves along the far side of the wall. We're too close in this confined space, and even now it takes everything inside of me not to reach up and kiss him.

"How so?" he asks, almost in challenge.

I look up at him, at the dim reflection of his profile. "You're the one they were afraid of."

Present

We spend the rest of the day making arrangements. I try to look interested as Peeta discusses flowers and food with the local mercantile, his arm pointedly wrapped around my waist, but as the day passes by I find myself bored with the details. Peeta, however, seems more invested in how the color of silk hydrangea will pair with my eyes than any merchant girl, or even Prim.

Peeta walks me back home, his hand intertwined in mine as we make our way through the town.

"You're such a dandy," I tease, leaning against his shoulder as the sun sets above us.

The barely there stubble of his cheeks rubs roughly against my forehead as he leans into me. "Hmm…" he says, pursing his lips. "Is that so?"

I squeeze his hand. "Yup," I pop my lips, changing the lilt of my voice to the high pitched squeal of an over-excited yankee lady. "Oh Katniss, I really don't think pale blue pairs well with such a deep green."

He laughs, deep vibrations pulsating against the hand I've pressed to his chest. Lowering the arm he has wrapped around my waist, he pinches my ass. "I thought we'd settled this one," he says as I yelp, his lips pressed hotly against my ear. "For such a dandy I do manage to find myself between your legs on a regular occasion. You know," he pauses, pressing a kiss under my earlobe, "I'm starting to question whether my being an absolute undeniable priss is a turn on. Ought I to paint my face and purchase a corset? I hear that is all the rage in France these days."

I roll my eyes at him, pushing him off of me and crossing my arms. "I swear, I have no idea why I ever let you find yourself between my legs, as you so aptly put it."

He tilts his head at me, beaming. "Oh, I know exactly why you did it. Slept with me, that is."

"Oh, really?" I ask, raising an eyebrow in curiosity, because he can't possibly know. I barely know myself.

He nods, a bounce in his step as he turns to face me. "Because you liiike me," he says in a sing-songy voice. "Katniss Everdeen liiikes me."

"See," I sigh, rolling my eyes dramatically, "this is exactly what I mean. Sometimes, Peeta, I swear, you act like a drunken child."

He bites his lip, steadying his hands around my hips. "Oh, I can behave like a man. I think you know that by now.." And then, without the slightest respect for decency, he grabs me by the arms and presses me against a tree.

Author's Note: Let me know what you thought in the comment section below! How do you think these past events will affect Katniss and Peeta's relationship? Will Peeta really leave Twelve?

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