16. Fearfully Fearless

I am scared to move, scared to turn around and see the boy with the blonde hair and blue eyes, who has both hated and loved me at different stages in our lives. I close my eyes my breath quickening and think of him and his familiar and powerful hands. Hands that held me gently in the cave, the hands that gripped the berries beside mine in the Hunger Games, the very same hands that once closed around my throat. The hands that are scarred like my own, as I saw again that morning in the square. The morning that the giant crate would've killed me if…

…If Peeta hadn't saved my life.

At the memory I open my eyes and slowly turn around. I gasp sharply as I see that Peeta is standing right in front of me. My breathing is ragged, though I don't know why. After all I recalled that he saved my life a mere few days ago, surely, he wouldn't try to take it now. If he does there is nothing that I can do anyway as without my bow, I am practically defenseless. Peeta is strong, can throw around 100 LB bags of flour, could've strangled me to death once if they'd only left him to it. That Peeta can kill me with his bare hands is not in question. My thoughts must surface in my eyes because though Peeta is standing before me looking at me curiously, he suddenly shrinks back taking a few steps until he is far enough that I could comfortably escape if I needed to.

"Sorry." Peeta says quietly and falls back into his seat in the booth where he must have been before. "I didn't mean to scare you." He says and then he pulls his legs back in so that I cannot see him from where I stand. He seems to be waiting for me to leave but something in his voice has bothered me. I recognize the tone, but I cannot place it.

I walk gingerly over to Peeta until I am facing him in the booth. "You didn't scare me. I was just…I didn't think anyone else was awake." I say and I try to smile rubbing my arm anxiously with my left hand. I try not to show him the fear that I felt earlier, remembering how violent he once was. The fear I feel remembering anything about that time during the war. Instead of smiling back Peeta turns away from me, looking down at the empty seat beside him, picking at invisible thread. "Yeah, okay. Goodnight." It is then that I identify the tone of his voice, along with the expression; he is hurt. I can't think of a reason why he should be hurt so I sit down deciding to find out.

"What's the matter?" I ask and Peeta looks up at me in shock.

"Aren't you going back to bed?" he asks cautiously.

"I mean, I can leave…if you want me to." I say.

"I don't want you to. I just thought you wanted to." he says.

I feel ridiculous and my guess is that Peeta does too, and we sit in the quiet dim glow of the nighttime lights of the train, both awkwardly looking around at uninteresting things. Chandelier. Carpet. Window. Then my eyes settle on Peeta's face. As he glances out of the window, I take the time to study his features and am surprised to find that they are nearly the exact same ones from my memories; the tight tanned smooth skin, the rigid cheekbones, the scar down behind his right ear all the way to where his neck meets his chest. It is a skin graft surgery scar. Unnoticeable to most but I recognize it immediately. I have the exact same one.

Peeta glances back at me and his smile is light, boyish. For the first time I feel myself letting go of the breath I was holding and just relaxing. He is just Peeta now. In my heart I know it, but sometimes, I can't help but remember him as he was once. A Capitol made Katniss-Killer. I feel mean as I think it and as if on cue he says softly "What are you thinking?" Ugh. This is definitely the same Peeta.

I have always hated it when Peeta asks me questions like this but this time, after months without talking to him in his right mind I can't very well lie to him, but I also can't tell him the whole truth.

"About you." I blurt out and immediately regret it.

Peeta's face lightens, and he leans forward saying eager but also cautiously "What about me?" I think back to the last few days, not the war, not the Capitol. And land on yesterday morning in the kitchen with everyone watching our awkward reunion.

"Why didn't you tell me about the ball?" I say, but it sounds very accusatory.

Peeta pulls back, his expression darkening, "We haven't exactly been communicating lately, Katniss." He says, and the wounded tone is back.

"I know." I say, "But…why?" even as the words leave my lips, I know that they sound silly. All that is between us could never be summed up in his answer to my question.

But then, in a very Peeta like fashion he does answer it with his simple statement "You tell me." And leans back staring at me expectantly.

"I'm not the only one who can talk!" I hiss, feeling suddenly defensive of my last two months of lonely indifference.

"True, but I've tried to talk to you plenty, Katniss! I've called out to you when I see you in the square, or when I walk out my door. You've been ignoring me! I even brought you Katniss roots and had Haymitch put them in your fridge. And you never said…one word." He says and as he ends his sentence, he leans back again a look of pain in his eyes that I don't understand, but want to.

"I'm sorry…" I say but nothing else comes. What I don't say is that I have rarely ever heard him calling to me. I remember once in the square with the redhead, but I don't remember any other times. Or maybe I do…is it possible that I have been zoning out even more than I've noticed?

Peeta sighs and says resignedly, "No, no. I'm sorry Katniss. I've just been angry, is all. I mean, I know why you don't talk to me it's just…hard to admit sometimes…hard to accept."

My brows knit in confusion. What can he mean? "No. You don't have anything to apologize for. You're right I have been avoiding you." Peeta jerks back at my admission, but I lean forward touching his hand slightly, "But I wasn't trying to hurt you, Peeta. I was just trying to…to…"

"Protect yourself." Peeta says, nodding and I nod smiling lightly. Maybe we do have unspoken understandings after all "Yes, that's right."

Now Peeta's face darkens again, and he says in a small, choked voice. "From me." Confusion washes over me again but taking in his expression I try to understand. "No…Peeta. You think that I'm afraid of you?" I say, the painful realization surprising me. I speak out the statement as I think in a near whisper "You think that I'm afraid that you'll try to hurt me again…"

"It's not what I think, it's what I know. And you just said it yourself, Katniss." Peeta says and he is standing up now, quickly pushing away from his seat to retreat into the darkness.

"No, Peeta!" I say suddenly desperate that he believes me. "That's not why I was avoiding you! I'm not afraid of you." I say, rushing after him trying not to give way to the slight lie of my statement. It is mostly true, avoiding Peeta has never really had anything to do with thinking he'll kill me. That thought never even slightly entered my mind. Not, until yesterday morning at least.

"Don't lie to me, Katniss!" Peeta says and he turns back towards me, his finger pointing at me viciously, eyes burning in a way that I haven't seen since the war. "I've seen the way you look at me. I saw it even yesterday morning. It's like you think I'm some…some monster! So, just stop lying!" His voice is harsh and he has inched closer and closer with each word until he is so close I can feel his breath hot against my cheeks.

He looks so, so angry. So angry and so unlike my Peeta, that I do start to get a little scared. I catch my breath, the gasp rising up but dying beneath my lips settling in the back of my throat where he cannot detect it. I stand my ground, refusing to let Peeta think his misunderstanding correct. I stand steadily before him, our faces almost touching as he breathes deeply, steeling his jaw.

His voice ragged, Peeta says lower, but through clenched teeth. "I just…I can't take the lying, Kat, not anymore. Not after…not after…" he falters and his eyes close almost involuntarily and his face holds an expression that I recognize. His expression vacant. His face relaxed and tense all at once. This is how I must look at those times when the words will not come with the memories that freeze me. He has zoned out like I do.

Peeta shivers slightly, hands at his sides, his fists clenching tightly, and I know that he is somewhere dark and horrible. Maybe back in the place when they first tortured him in the Capitol, injected him with tracker jacker venom, made him want to hurt me. But, for the first time, I am not fearful before this twisted version of him. I don't feel any fear for my own safety, only the familiar urgency for Peeta to feel safe again. For Peeta to know that he is safe with me.

I don't think, I just reach down and carefully grip one of his fisted hands. Peeta shivers slightly at my touch, but he doesn't resist as I bring his clenched fist up and forcing his palm open, I place my hand inside his. Our fingers intertwine and soon Peeta's breathing begins to slow until it matches mine.

Peeta's eyes open, the sweat pouring from his forehead contrasting with the chattering of his teeth, but he is back. Here, with me. Peeta looks down at our hands and then up at me. In his eyes is a question and I answer by remaining here before him, fearlessly gripping his hand. Yes, I know that you would never hurt me. There is no way that he can mistake my meaning but just for good measure I say slowly and softly, leaning up and staring directly into his troubled blue eyes, "I am not afraid of you, Peeta Mellark."

For a moment we just stand here Peeta's eyes full, and my own tears threatening to surface, when he pulls me into him, hugging me forcefully for the first time in almost a year. He breathes deeply and silently, and I do too. My hands locking around him like they've always belonged here. And I feel safe, truly safe for the first time in forever.

And as we stand in this embrace, I know that these surfacing feelings of contentment are not because just anyone is touching me. Not because I want to be held and someone is holding me. They are because my need to be touched has been quelled by Peeta, the fire of longing being stoked, by his touch, his warmth, and his acceptance.

And in the dark, softly lit train car, I know the answer once and for all: No, it is not Peeta Mellark, former Capitol made Katniss-Killer that I am afraid of, that I need protection from. It is from this, the desperate and unexplainable way that Peeta Mellark, My Peeta, my boy with the bread, always makes me feel.