The wheel on Peeta's wheelchair squeaks. The hallway is so quiet, it's all you can really hear. That and Peeta's wet breathing. There's a rattle in his throat, like something bad's caught in his lungs. Pneumonia? Whooping cough?

"Is Annie okay?" Peeta asks.

I glance down and catch the concerned look on his face when he speaks. Peeta's eyes focus on me for a moment before turning back towards Haymitch, who pushes his wheelchair along the hall.

"I saw her with Finnick. She'll be alright." I squeeze the palm of his hand. Peeta's gaze returns to me with a grateful smile.

"That's good." He squeezes me back, making no move to pull away. "Johanna?"

"I didn't see her." I shake my head. "But I can ask about her tomorrow, if you'd like."

"Okay," he nods, his voice is soft, unsure. I can basically see his mind whirling about what, I'm not sure.

I hold his hand with both of my own. I don't really know what to say. I don't want to be quiet, but I also don't have any words. It feels as if a lifetime of pain, confusion, and longing flooded the space that belonged to him during his absence, and how could I even begin to broach that? Could anyone?

"Everything's so… bland." Peeta comments, his eye catching my own with the slightest glimmer.

"It's damn near a prison, if that's what you mean." Haymitch interjects.

"Damn near or just about?" I add.

"I'd say." Peeta smiles, albeit tentatively. "And we're underground?"

"Completely," I nod. "Just wait until we get to the elevator. It's massive."

Peeta seems to pale, if that's at all possible. "How can you stand it?"

"She doesn't," Haymitch snorts.

I frown towards my mentor before catching Peeta's curious gaze. "Uh, yeah. No, I don't—I can't. They let me hunt."

"You get to go outside?" Peeta's voice contains a touch of wonder. "In the sunlight?"

"Only way to do it."

"I haven't been outside in a while." Peeta looks off towards the end of the hall. "Is it summer still?"

My heart clenches. "No. The fall. The leaves are already falling."

"Oh," Peeta mumbles.

I force myself to flutter my eyelashes before I do something awful like cry.

We're silent, waiting in an awkward stillness until the metal elevator doors slide open, groaning as they go. If I thought that a solo elevator trip would have been the most appropriate option for the situation we find ourselves in, I am denied. On the other side of the doors, standing as straight as ever, I find Boggs.

"Soldier Everdeen," He greets as we enter the elevator.

"Boggs," I nod.

"And Peeta Mellark." Boggs looks down at Peeta expectantly. "We'll see you in command?"

"He's not a soldier," I say, defensively gripping Peeta's nearest shoulder.

"Command?" Peeta directs his question to me, twisting around in his chair while Haymitch maneuvers him away from me.

"They do strategic meetings for the rebellion. I go to them. Sometimes." I clarify, stepping past Boggs so I can reach the bank of buttons and quickly select my floor. "It's not important."

"It is important. People don't hand out free favors around here," Boggs looks me straight in the eye. "Don't forget that."

"Everything has a cost," I cross my arms. "Even basic human decency."

"We'll see you Friday." Boggs offers me an almost friendly lift of the brow before he steps out of the elevator.

"That seemed ominous," Peeta comments once the elevator doors are closed. "What's he talking about?"

"I'll tell you later," I hedge. Haymitch looks at me with that frustratingly Haymitch face. "Let's just… that's tomorrows problem, okay?"

"Katniss, I don't want you doing stuff you don't want to for me."

"It's a bit late for that," I say with a smile. Peeta frowns. "Come on. You knew what you were getting into when you met me."

Peeta looks away with a scoff. "That isn't funny."

"Peeta—"

"Save the fighting for when I'm not here, 'kay?" Haymitch interjects, stepping out of the elevator once we're on my floor. "I have enough going on."

I try to linger a step behind them, but Haymitch shoots me a dirty look so I jog to keep up. Peeta doesn't turn to look at me, rather, he looks lost in thought and unusually focused on his own wrists. I try, but I cannot resist the urge to touch him, so I lay a hand on his shoulder. Regardless of whether I've annoyed him already, he leans into my touch.

"We have the whole place to ourselves." I comment once Peeta's eyes return to me. "My mother and sister are working. They're probably really busy right now, what with all the soldiers—and the rescues, of course."

Peeta offers me the shadow of a smile. "What do they do?"

"Oh, right you don't—um." I shake my head. Why am I rambling? "I didn't say any—they work in the hospital. They're not quite nurses, but Prim says it's the same thing."

He puts a hand against mine, pressing it to his bony shoulder. "She must love that."

"Yeah," I smile. "She said that if she keeps at it she'll be certified. Maybe by the end of the war? Depending on, you know, how long that takes. But she could be a healer. For real."

Peeta's smile mirrors my own. "You're proud."

"Of course. How couldn't I?" I look ahead of us, spotting my door just to the right. "We're here."

Haymitch pushes Peeta's chair close to the doorway. Both wait patiently as I unlock it with my fingerprints. Mandatory biosensors, not at all disturbing.

"Ah, my mother's turning in her grave. I didn't bring anything." Peeta jokes as I pull the door open. It's surprising enough to make Haymitch laugh. I smile at them over my shoulder but I'm still concerned.

"Peeta," I murmur but decide to drop it. Now's not the time. I move to hold the door open wide so Haymitch can push the wheelchair inside easily. "This is it."

"Home sweet home," Peeta remarks.

"I wouldn't go that far." I let the door fall shut, walking behind them at a slower pace. "But it's all we've got for now."

"Could be worse," Peeta shrugs. I don't disagree.

"Well," Haymitch reaches down to slap both of Peeta's shoulders. I jump in alarm, but Peeta seems to take it in stride. "That's my cue to go. Be good."

"I'm always good." Peeta retorts.

"Sure you are," Haymitch snorts, turning away from him. He's immediately met by my sour expression and a blocked doorway. "Katniss."

I step aside. "Abernathy."

I hear him sigh as he walks out, but I ignore him. Peeta has my attention. His eyes explore the meager room, taking in all the excitement, such as, the standard issue two-seater sofa, hard cushions and all, for your daily 'reflection' needs. The digital clock, and the metal table and chairs shoved haphazardly into the corner, not for eating, but for staring blankly at your concrete walls. I watch him as he grips the wheelchair's hand rims and curiously pushes himself forward, accidentally spinning in a half circle towards me.

I smile crookedly, "what do you think?"

"I like it," he nods, studying the light strips around the ceiling as they dim gently. "It's weird, but not bad."

"We got one of the nice ones," I say as if I'm sharing a secret. I walk closer to him, lingering by the arm of the couch. "We even have a window."

Peeta glances around swiftly as if he'd somehow missed it and would find it now. "Really? We're that close to the surface?"

"Yeah, we have to, it's part of the deal. That way we could keep Prims stupid cat." I drop onto one of the solid couch cushions. I don't bounce, not even a little bit.

"Buttercups here?" Peeta seems amazed and seems to momentarily forget about his own leg because he attempts to walk. "Where—?"

"Careful!" I shriek, jumping to my feet to catch him. Out of habit he leans all his weight on his amputated leg, the knee buckling from underneath him. As he loses balance he knocks his chair in the opposite direction, making a loud crashing noise when it hits the concrete wall. I manage to catch him before he topples to the ground, but he's still too heavy for me so we collapse on the couch instead.

"Are you okay?" I ask, agitated. I pat him down, looking for I don't know what, but Peeta pushes my hands away gently.

"I'm okay," he murmurs, and I can tell he's embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," I insist. "It's okay."

His jaw clenches as he rubs a rough hand against his eye. He doesn't push me away again, but he shifts positions, closing himself off as he glares down at his lap.

"I hate my leg." A confession. "It makes me so useless. I can't even walk on my own when I'm like this. I—" He snaps his mouth closed, his teeth making an audible clack. "I'm sorry."

"Please stop apologizing." I move closer to him, laying a hand on his own and waiting for him to unclench the fist. He does eventually. I intertwine our fingers as soon as I can. "We'll get your leg fixed tomorrow. I promise."

He sniffles and offers me a wry smile. He doesn't say anything else about it. His gaze turning away from mine, landing somewhere on the far wall.

"It's ugly." He says after a while. "The grey they used. It's like they decided on the worst possible shade. Truly a violation of the senses."

I smile, inching closer to him still. "Yeah?" My gaze stays on his profile. "I've never really considered grey to be all that nice of a colour. It's just kind of… nothing."

Peeta frowns and I know I've got him. He turns to face me again. If he's surprised by how close we are he doesn't mention it. "Really? I like grey. I think it's a really compelling colour."

"Compelling?" I prompt.

"Well, yeah." He insists, his eyes searching my own. "Think about it. It's the colour of storms, of… of rough seas, cold skies."

"Ugly things." I conclude.

"Compelling things," he insists. "Important things. Beautiful things."

"Beautiful things." I echo. I break our gazes, overwhelmed by the intensity in it. I place my chin on his shoulder instead, our eyes meeting a moment later. The stakes have shifted. "You know a lot about colours, right?"

He half shrugs, staying still so he doesn't disturb me. "I notice stuff, that's all."

"You care." I point out. I tilt my head back, considering him in the silence that's settled around us. "Peeta… I need to…" I struggle past the false start. "Um, about your family—"

"I know," he nods. When he sighs it seems to come from deep within him. "They, uh, they told me."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." His voice drops with masked melancholy, his eyes becoming avoidant once more.

I squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry it happened."

"Thank you," he murmurs, going quiet.

I wait for him to speak again but he doesn't. I've never been any good at saying something and I wish that wasn't true. I wish that I could say something, something good, something helpful, something right, but nothing comes. He just looks away, lost to me, adrift in his own thoughts. I press myself to his side, placing my cheek on his shoulder. Maybe my closeness is something. Maybe it'll do something good.

"Did you…" he trails off. I look up at him but he seems to shy away from the suddenness of my attention. "Uh, the videos. Did you…?"

"Yeah," I nod. "You saved our lives with that last one about the bombs."

His breath leaks out slowly. "I wasn't sure you saw it. I figured they'd find a way to cut the stream."

"I think it was live. They couldn't." I squeeze his hand again. "Thank you."

He smiles. "It's what we do."

"Take care of each other," I say.

"Take care of each other." He echoes.

I smile at him, my eyes roving over his brows, his nose. The familiar things. The things I thought I'd never see again. My eyes return to his, he's been watching me too. I can see his eyes refocusing when he notices I'm looking back at him.

"What?" the question is self-conscious, his lips turning up in a confused smile which serves to widen my own.

"Nothing," my brows come together in an indulgent frown. "I just—nothing. It's been a while."

"Hm," he hums but he doesn't shy away from me again. He just lets the silent sit. After some time, his hand comes up to tap a finger to my left cheek. "This is new."

I blink, bringing a hand of my own up to investigate. I feel the rough bump of skin stitched together, a new scar. Just something else I've collected in this strange new arena.

"It's just a scratch. Nothing serious." I shrug, but Peeta roves a thumb over it, his hand gripping my chin in a way I never thought I'd feel again.

"Hm," he hums noncommittally, his eyes dancing between my own and the scar.

"What is it?" I ask with wide eyes, but Peeta just shakes his head.

"Nothin'" Yet I notice his face growing pinker. I push my cheek against his palm, an insistent desire to invade his personal space coming over me. I want to press my cheek to his. My chest to his. My very bones to his.

"Someone told me something funny once," I murmur. "You, um, you said we could kiss whenever we'd like."

"I said you could. Because we were," he takes on a joking expression, "'in love'"

"Well… you can," I peek at him from under my lashes, suddenly unbearably shy. "To me. If you want."

"I—mmf!" Peeta's breath puffs around my face because I don't have it in me to wait and listen. I lean forward the last remaining inches and press my mouth to his, tilting my head and easing my lips open so I can taste him.

Peeta doesn't remain frozen for long. Not a moment later and both his hands come to cradle my jaw very gently, as if I'll flee or break if he's too insistent with me.

He's shy at first, not pushing me for anything, but when our tongues make first contact all that changes. He grabs me from around the waist, pulling me in as tightly as he can, and when he does, it's like he sets me alight, like he's poured warm wax into my very veins and there's no coming back. I want to be close to him, I need to. I throw my leg over his lap, ready to climb aboard and see where that takes us when he bites down on my bottom lip, making my toes curl. I think it's going to happen, it's really going to happen, right here, right now. And I want it, I really do.

But the dinner bell rings, and Peeta, who's still easily shocked, wretches himself away from me, wild eyed. He pants, nails biting into my arms as he looks around the room. "What the hell was that?"

"It's nothing! Just dinner! Just dinner," I gasp, pushing my newly loose hair away and grasping him by the shoulders. "It's okay. It's okay."

Peeta's eyes settle on my face as his breathing slows. He slumps backwards, coming to rest awkwardly against the opposite arm of the couch, his hair in an increased state of disarray.

"Dinner?" He asks.

"Yeah." I nod, crawling closer so I'm back on his lap as opposed to on his legs. "They have us on schedules. That's dinner block one. My block." I catch my breath, as does he, while I comb my fingers through my hair. There's something I haven't thought of, but my brains all foggy. "Oh! Food! Did you, um, have you eaten? Are you hungry?"

"I could always eat. That's never a problem for me." He chuckles, fingers drumming against my lower back. "Do you want to go? You'd have to push me around."

"Are you hungry?"

"I—" but I can tell by his face that he's about to lie to me.

"Let's go," I say, jumping to my feet.

The halls are largely deserted. We're running late so I have no doubt that all that'll be left are the salty dregs of whatever gruel they're forcing on us today. But food is food. I'll never turn it away.

The wheels on Peeta's wheelchair keep squeaking but it doesn't make me as anxious as last time. I think things are okay so far. There's probably more to say, but at least now I don't feel desperate to do it. I can wait.

I lead Peeta down to the cafeteria, pointing out any signage I think might be useful to him in the future. If I'm honest, I'm not all that familiar with District Thirteen, just the parts that lend me safer isolation than others. Peeta doesn't really say much he merely nods along but I can tell he's paying attention.

"They're very strict about rations." I mention as I lead us past the double doors and towards the end of the cafeteria cue. "They never give you more or less than your share. What you get is what you get."

"And you're sure this isn't a prison?" He says drawing a dirty look from some woman ahead of us.

"Don't," I mumble, bending close to his ear so no one catches me laughing. "I don't think they like Twelve all that much."

"Twelve or us? Different things." He straightens up, noticing that the officer on duty is waiting for us to step forward. We've reached check-in without paying attention. I stand at my full height and push Peeta forward.

"Name?" The officer asks with little interest, her finger already poised over her computer terminal.

"Peeta Mellark," Peeta replies while I watch on.

The officer taps on her screen for too long. I shift my weight from foot to foot, growing antsy. A part of me knows what's coming, but I still can't believe it's about to happen.

"You're not in the system." The officer replies, the implication that we're at fault plain as day in her voice. She stares us down with disapproval. "No number, no tray."

"Worse than prison then. Didn't see that coming." Peeta mumbles, I would laugh if I wasn't pissed off.

I stare the officer down, gripping the handles of Peeta's chair with unnecessary force.

"You're telling me you really don't know who he is?" The woman doesn't respond one way or the other, she just stares back at us, expressionless. "Fine. So new refugees don't get fed?"

"He needs to be processed first. And quarantined. They'll feed him at the hospital," She answers.

"He's been discharged; he's a citizen. Feed him." I bite back.

"Then he'd be in the system." She says matter-of-factly.

"Katniss—" Peeta tries to interject but I blow right past it.

"Fine. Give me mine then." I square my shoulders.

"You can't share your—"

"Can you force me to eat the food on my tray?" I interrupt.

"Of course not," the woman blinks in surprise.

"Then I can give it to whoever I want. Let's go." I say the latter in a gentler tone to Peeta. "Katniss. Everdeen." I add belatedly for the woman's benefit.

"Yes. I know." The officer nods, her fingers already tapping at her screen to presumably check me into the system.

Without waiting to see what else she might say, I push Peeta's chair along the line, snatching one of the stacked trays on the officer's terminal and heading briskly for the food line.

"Are you going to get in trouble for that?" Peeta asks a moment later, watching with trepidation as a worker sets out the pre-weighed dishes per identifier section.

"I'm always in trouble." I dismiss, heading for the female section and flashing my dog tag so I can get one of the soldier's meals. "Nothing new there."

"Hmph," Peeta replies unhappily, his eyes judgementally scanning today's meal. "The hell is that?"

I shrug, placing the warm tray on his lap so I can get back to pushing him around. "They say it's edible. Who am I to ask questions?"

"If you say so," he says unconvincingly. "Hell, I'd do anything for some dog meat right about now." He adds forlornly. "Even though I hate it."

"You've had it before?" I smirk his way. "I thought that was more of a Hob thing."

"It's probably a District-wide thing, we just don't talk about it." He tilts his head back to go cross-eyed. I smile back. "We're just too good to admit we're hungry up in town."

"Greasy Sae makes a mean dog stew." I say, bending down to kiss his forehead. "Remind me to buy you a bowl sometime."

Peeta smiles back at me honestly, looking sweet as a button. He sits up properly to mind our meal while I swing us around the tables looking for an available spot.

I spot the Hawthorne's up ahead. We usually eat together anyway, plus a part of me I haven't been paying close attention to is itching to know how Gale's doing. I know he came back alive, but that's about the extent of my knowledge on the topic.

I wheel us up to the group from the back, coming around with a shy smile by way of greeting. Hazelle looks surprised when she spots us. She probably wasn't expecting to see Peeta up and about already, but she smiles once the surprise fades.

"As I live and breathe," she says. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Peeta Mellark?"

"Mrs. Hawthorne. I trust the day's treating you fine?" Peeta replies around a pleasant smile.

"It certainly has." She motions for the others to make some space. "Come on now, Katniss needs to push the chair in."

Rory pulls his chair over to the side, making a loud scrapping noise as he goes. He smiles at us politely but otherwise goes back to his meal. Peeta sets the tray on the table, and I take the empty seat to his right. The grey mass in his bowl jiggles slightly at the disturbance.

"Aren't you eating?" Hazelle asks me, frowning at the empty table before me.

"They wouldn't feed us both." I roll my eyes.

"That's why we're sharing," Peeta emphasizes, pushing the tray partway towards me with a look. Damn it. "Don't look at me like that."

"What? You're the one— ugh fine." I pick up the grey-looking roll and make a point of biting into it. "Happy?"

"No, but I will be. Take." He pushes the spoon towards me, taking the bread for himself. "Have some."

I roll my eyes but take the spoon from him anyways. He's hungry so he won't notice if I just poke around the bowl until he takes it back. I return my attention to Hazelle. "Is Gale alright?"

She nods, glancing over my shoulder to where the big digital clock is. "He's fine. They're keeping him overnight for observation. Breathed in some nasty stuff. But there isn't a scratch on him otherwise."

I sigh with relief. "That's good to hear. When they said he volunteered... I thought the worse."

Hazelle smiles sadly, reaching across the table to take my hand in her own. "I know, honey."

"He volunteered? For my mission?" Peeta asks, his attention fully on Hazelle. Gale's mother nods, her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

"He did," she sniffles, looking down at her lap. "Oh, forgive me. I know these are tough times but… tsk, a mother never wants to see her boy in a soldier's uniform." She smiles at us apologetically, patting underneath her eyes with one of the cafeterias scratchy brown napkins.

"That's alright." I squeeze Hazelle's hand gently. "You're sorry? I'm sorry. I got us in this mess."

"Pfft. Don't say crazy things, girl." Hazelle dismisses. "Lord knows he would be first in line for any battle, Victor or not. Just like his Pa." She shakes her head. "Damn hardheaded boy."

I smile sadly because I know that's true. Gale's as stubborn as they come. Once he makes his mind up about something there's no changing it, and he's been pretty set on his feelings about the government for a while now. I can't say I blame him for it.

"Do you think he'll be released by morning? I wanted to visit." I ask.

Hazelle shrugs, "I don't see why they'd keep him any longer. You'll see him come breakfast."

I offer a half-hearted smile in return, feeling a little bummed out that I won't be able to see my friend in the hospital. But it might be for the best, I'm no good at hospitals.

After dinner, I let Peeta back into the compartment. He pushes the wheels of his wheelchair forward haltingly as he's not used to doing so. He peeks around the room, turning to me with confusion.

"Where's your family? It's getting late, isn't it?" He asks.

"They're part of Block 2, so they're probably eating. They'll get back in around an hour." I step into the room after him. The front door sliding quietly shut behind me. "You wanna see that window?"

Peeta grins. "Hell yeah, I do."

I walk past him to open the bedroom door, holding it wide so Peeta can wheel past me. He does so, smiling awkwardly, as if it's something new to be alone in a bedroom together.

He spots the little window, coming around to the bed that sits bellow it. He turns back to me with a downturned smile.

"They're real cheap with 'luxuries,' huh?"

I snort, walking towards him with my hands outstretched. Peeta gets the hint and takes them, carefully pulling himself to his one working foot.

"Come," I guide him towards the bed, eagerly climbing in after him.

"Does it open?" Peeta looks at me hopefully.

"Here," I say, kneeling on the mattress so I can push the small window out, letting in some of the cool nighttime air. "It's not much, but—"

"It's perfect," Peeta insists. He leans his face against the cold concrete wall, shutting his eyes. "It smells like outside," he adds dreamily.

I can't help but smile at him, "yeah." I whisper, inching closer. "It's nice."

"Mm," Peeta doesn't open his eyes, but he senses I'm near and opens his arms, allowing me to crawl my way back into my favourite spot. I'm mindful of his injured body, keeping my weight as much to myself as I can. Happily, I press my face against his shoulder and hug him close, falling into a sort of half-awake twilight. I breathe in deeply but all I pick up is the scent of gun powder and hospital, no Peeta.

He leans fully against the wall, eyes still shut. I stay where I am, I don't mind keeping him company. It's very quiet, oddly so. I'm still not used to this aspect of District 13. The walls are so good at absorbing sound, it's always dead quiet when you shut the door behind you. Almost as if everyone else ceases to exist. It's quite the stark opposite from District 12 where you could hear everything, all the time. People yelling, people walking on gravel, people cooking. Just constant sounds. Life happening all around you. District 13 is sterile, the only life it has is what you can squeeze out of it.

"I don't mind sharing with Prim if you're tired," I whisper, watching as the automatic lights start to shut off. It's almost bedtime. "You probably want the bed to yourself, right?"

"I don't," Peeta denies. "Let's just sleep here."

I don't quite laugh, but an amused sound slips out of me. "This is my moms bed!"

"We'll apologize in the morning," Peeta yawns. "I'm so tired, Katniss."

"Sleep then," I insist.

We rearrange ourselves, Peeta falling asleep instantly. I don't even manage to lay the thin grey sheet over him before he's unconscious. I watch over him for a moment, using my eyes to trace all the things that cause me anxiety: His split lip, his purple eye sockets, his sharp cheekbones. Then there's all the things I've come to love: his long eyelashes, his floppy hair, his boyish freckles. I could probably spend hours just looking at him.

"I—" I attempt to say it, but it doesn't come. Love, the word that seems to be haunting me. The reason he was gone, the reason he's hurt. Love. I love him.

Carefully, I lay beside him. I don't want to hurt him anymore than he already is. He gravitates towards me, just as he's always done, his arm finding my middle, his foot finding my ankle. It feels right.

It's been so long since things felt right.