your wish is my command:

He shouldn’t be used to having a shock collar at his throat, but he’s becoming alarmingly numb to it, on this merry go round of get up, get scoured down and decorated, stand in front of a camera, make speeches, go out, pretend to have fun at parties, sleep fitfully, do it again, get food if you’re good. At least they’re not being tortured anymore. And at least — well, he’s heard rumors, things about “what a victor goes for” murmured around the hors d’oeuvres. He imagines he and Katniss could go for a lot: double, triple, too much, and never enough for what would be stolen from them. At least Snow seems more interested in keeping them under lock and key than gifting them out. Too dangerous, for people to get too attached.

He sighs and leans back in the chair where he sits, right in Katniss’s view as she denounces her sister in scathing terms. The guard holding the shock remote glares at him, but Peeta raises his eyebrows in a silent, “calm down — I’m not doing anything.” He knows he’s being stupid, but as the guard turns away, some part of him that is more his mother than his father possesses him to mutter “jackass” under his breath.

Immediately, he regrets it. Pain lances up his spine into his skull, pulsating in his nerves. The only thing he can compare it to is being stung by a thousand tracker jackers at once, his breath supply cut short and his limbs jerking. It’s over in a second and he falls forward in his chair, catching his elbows on his knees and cradling his own face, trying to quiet his heaving gasps. If they pick the sound up on camera, they’ll punish him again. He can distantly hear Katniss’s voice rise in pitch and speed, the note of panic for him evident even as she says, “The rebels have no sense of mercy, no sense of honor or compassion.” He raises his head and shakes it weakly to tell her he’s fine, but the instant the shoot is done she rushes to him, yanking the collar off as soon as the guard unlocks it.

“Are you okay?” she frets, touching his red throat with careful fingers as they’re taken back to their quarters, she held under his arm like always, her hand against his chest.

“Isn’t the worst I’ve had,” he shrugs, though he feels lightheaded. “Lots worse.”

She nods. She knows. She’s had worse too. But as soon as they’re shut back in the penthouse she goes to the bathroom and runs the shower. He leaves his suit crumpled on the floor by the door and follows the trail of her dress and jewelry to find her checking the temperature.

It’s probably the best part of their captivity, these moments, when they hold each other under the warm rush of the water, like standing in a summer rain. He steps in, fumbles with a button on the side of the tile wall that makes the bathroom go dark except for a soft purple glow in the shower itself. It’s for ambiance or something ridiculous like that, but it takes them out of it, for a moment, this madhouse they live in.

She scrubs all the makeup from her face with rapid swipes of her palms, smearing her mascara and lipstick. He picks out the only soap they can stand, something that smells like honeysuckle, and they help each other wash the day’s sweat and sick feeling away.

When they’re finished, he takes her in his arms under the water and they sway slightly as if in a dance, heart rates slowing, breathing easing.

“What did you do?” she murmurs after a while. He smoothes his hands down her body, soft, save for the raised ridges on her back. “To make him do that?”

“Called him a jackass,” Peeta says, almost laughing. She does laugh, a fond, exasperated sound.

“You idiot,” she says, and she might as well have called him a pet name the way she says it. “I’m glad you did. He is a jackass.”

They’re quiet again. The water doesn’t grow cold. There isn’t really any point in getting out, not at least until his leg starts to act up or they start to prune. Their conversation feels more secret here, even if it isn’t.

“Sing me something,” she says.

He smiles incredulously. “Me? Sing you something?”

“Change of pace,” she yawns. “It can be anything.”

He considers for a moment. Most of the songs he knows are ones she taught him. But then, just as he’s about to tell her he isn’t sure he can, something comes to him.

“Do you remember . . . I think it was in second grade, when you were out for a week sick?”

She smirks. “You really did remember everything.”

He shakes his head. “No — I only remember because they taught us a song in music and I memorized it for you. I had grand plans to teach it to you if you wanted to learn it when you got back. But we moved on to something else by then.“

Her eyes are soft and amused. “Teach it to me now?”

“Sure,” he agrees. “It’s really simple, kind of silly.”

He hums to get the tune, then starts —

hey little daisy

peeking towards the sun

do you know it’s sweethearts day?

won’t you be my one?

hey little bluebell

trade the rain for sun

do you know it’s sweethearts day?

won’t you be my one?

Katniss hums along to the second stanza, her features oddly peaceful in the violet light, nestling as close to him as she can, pressing herself against his skin like she wants to fall into him. He knows the feeling. He kisses the wet crown of her head. The last stanza should be about asters, but —

hey little katniss

beauty in the sun

do you know it’s sweethearts day?

won’t you be my one?

this time it is abigail cowen for allydia