#no hijacking

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I’m in surprisingly good spirits in the morning while my prep team works to get Peeta and me ready for the new propo we’re meant to be filming later. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the way Peeta and I spent the evening tentatively exploring each other’s bodies until pleasure and exhaustion overcame us both, or with the increased amount of uninterrupted sleep I’ve been getting. I might have gotten five or six hours last night after everything. 

I sneak a peek at him in the chair a few feet away from where Flavius is brushing some translucent powder over his face. He looks better rested and his skin has taken on a more healthy glow that suits him. The thought suffuses me with a small warm burst of satisfaction, at seeing him healthy and recovering.

 I fight a blush when I think about the way I kissed every inch of his face, neck, and chest last night. 

This new thing between us is a distraction, to be sure, but not necessarily an unwelcome one. The days in Thirteen are long and we’ve been working hard to try and fulfill the demands of those around us. It's nice to have a respite from all the pressure. When he and I are alone in his room all of that seems to fall away. That space becomes a retreat of sorts, where Peeta and I can forget about the world for a few hours and just be ourselves. Bare and honest with each other.

Peeta catches me looking and the corner of his mouth peeks up in a small private smirk. 

I bite back the urge to tell him to cut it out, knowing that would only lead to questions from my preps that I don’t want to answer. 

When Flavius turns away Peeta chances a quick wink at me in a way that brings to mind his teasing yet sweet attentions from our first arena. 

I roll my eyes at him affectionately, ready to volley a trademark scowl if he keeps this up, but then Venia strides in with our propo outfits. 

The Mockingjay costume Cinna created for me still takes my breath away when I see it sometimes. So does Peeta’s. They are all sleek lines and beautifully crafted functionality. Dark pieces of geometrically shaped bulletproof armor cover our most vulnerable points, and durable but flexible material bends and moves along our joints and legs to lend mobility to the ensembles as well as protection.

The final effect looks stylish but also deadly if I’m being honest. Especially when paired with the weapons Beetee custom designed for us. The way my bow comes to life underneath my hands still thrills me. I’m eager to dress and sling the quiver over my back, even though the only arrows inside will be normal ones. They still won’t let me walk around with the specially loaded ones Beetee made. 

Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart to complete the look and Peeta nods at me to signal his readiness when he finishes clasping his blade and firearm to his belt. I stare for a moment at the image of the two of us standing side by side in the mirror. 

We don’t look like a pair of tragic star-crossed lovers any longer. 

We look ready for a fight, for vengeance or retribution. Maybe both. 

“They’re either going to want to kiss you, kill you, or be you,” Peeta quips, parroting Finnick’s humorous words when we did our first test run in the costumes yesterday. 

“I’ll settle for them joining us, or simply laying down their arms,” I reply dryly. 

Peeta’s face takes on a more serious expression almost instantly. 

“That’s why we’re doing it this way,” he says reassuringly, cupping my shoulder with one of his large hands. 

“I know,” I tell him. And I do. Plutarch’s explained a hundred times, how just the sight of Peeta and I, alive and united, is supposed to inspire people to join the rebel cause and inspire the loyalists and capitalists to abandon their misguided fight. 

But I still feel guilty asking people to fight for me sometimes. 

“Katniss, Snow is just going to keep bombing districts and sending in reinforcements until he breaks everyone’s will to fight.” Peeta’s voice is barely a whisper, but I hear him all the same. 

After all this time it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s getting much better at reading me. Sometimes it's uncanny how quickly he can figure out the way my mind veers off in a certain direction. 

“You’re right,” I say because he is. His hand travels up the back of my neck, to fall against my hair soothingly as he caresses my braid. I lean back against him. 

He locks eyes with me in the mirror. 

“If you don’t want to do this anymore, we’ll find a way to get out of it. I promise. You’ve given enough. We both have.” he says, sternly, so determinedly that I believe him, even though it's unlikely either of us could back out now. 

I shake my head.  Even if we could somehow walk away from this, from being symbols of the rebellion, I could never live with myself afterward. 

“No, we promised Finnick we’d get Annie back. And Johanna. Snow…needs to be stopped. He needs to pay for what he did to 12, to all of us.” I say, voice resolute. Peeta’s hand comes down to twine with mine. 

He interlocks our fingers. 

“I’m with you.” He tells me,  and it's enough to get me moving again. 

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Soon we’re on the soundstage, where we seem to stand for hours while they adjust our makeup, lighting, and smoke levels. 

Eventually, the commands coming via the intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer. Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying us and less time adjusting. Finally, there’s quiet on the set. For a full five minutes, Peeta and I are simply considered. We go through our lines again. Just the two for Peeta and the one slogan for me. Tomorrow they’ll focus on speeches and interviews and have us pretend to be in rebel battles. But today they just want those three lines corked into a propo that they can show Coin. 

“Has the Capitol hurt you, or someone you love? Are you tired of slaving away by day and going to bed hungry at night?” Those are Peeta’s lines. He delivers them with the same sort of conviction I’ve come to expect from him but it strangely still feels like he’s reading one of Effie’s cards from the Victory Tour. 

Then it’s my turn. 

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!” That’s the line. My line. I can tell by the way they presented it to me at first that they spent months, maybe years working it out and are proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me though, and stiff. I can’t imagine saying it in real life— unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it. 

But Fulvia’s in my face, describing the battle I’ve just been in and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me and how to rally the living I must turn to the camera and shout out the line! 

I catch sight of Peeta grimacing slightly from the corner of my eye but before I shoot him a questioning look I’m hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling and I hear “Action!” So I hold the bow over my head and yell the line with all the anger I can muster. 

There’s dead silence on the set. It goes on and on. I turn to look at Peeta. He looks like he’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but I can see it there, beneath the cracks. Something like sympathy. 

Then, Haymitch’s acerbic laugh fills the studio, crackling through the old intercom. He contains himself long enough to say, “And that my friends, is how a revolution dies.” 

~

Peeta is obviously and immediately happier to see our old mentor than I am. He’s rushing over to the booth to speak to him at the drop of a hat while I hang back and work up the motivation.  It was a surprise to hear Haymitch’s voice, especially after his disparaging comments about my propo performance, but ultimately I put my annoyance aside to join Peeta to welcome our mentor back. 

“Well, well, well, look at you, sweetheart. Your acting skills haven’t improved but you certainly look better than I’ve seen you in a long time,” Haymitch says, surreptitiously studying my face and in particular, the lack of deep circles underneath the stage makeup I’m wearing. 

“Surviving a second arena has done wonders for my sleep regimen,” I deadpan. 

Haymitch raises a brow at me, suspiciously, and his gaze swings between Peeta and me, assessingly. 

“I seriously doubt that. But I can guess what have you playing nice with these birdbrains,” he says with a knowing smirk aimed in Peeta’s direction. 

Cue flaming cheeks for both Peeta and me. 

“Are you sure they drained all the booze out of you? You seem just a little too carefree to be 100% sober right now,” I accuse, defensively. 

Haymitch laughs heartily, then winces. 

“Nice try, sweetheart, but you can’t throw me off the scent that easily. Lucky for you, we’ve got bigger things to catch up on than the state of your love life. Kids,” he says, addressing Peeta and me together, “these propos suck,” he states bluntly. 

Peeta, the traitor, nods quickly. I shoot him a deadly glare and he shrugs sheepishly. 

“I’ve been trying to reason with them for weeks. They won’t listen to me about the lines,” Peeta tells Haymitch. 

I huff. He has been trying to get the writers to take his suggestions more seriously. But I had no idea why he was so dead set on it. Maybe the lines they are feeding us sound as unbelievable to him as they do to me. 

“Yeah, I figured kid. Don’t worry. We’ll take ‘em on together first thing tomorrow,” Haymitch promises and Peeta’s face relaxes with relief. 

“Now, why don’t you two show me where a man can get something to eat in this crazy maze?” Haymitch prods and Peeta and I signal to the others that we’re done for the day and lead our mentor away in the direction of the mess hall. 

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During dinner, Peeta and I fill Haymitch in on what’s happened since he’s been away. Or, more accurately, Peeta fills Haymitch in with his patent enthusiasm and I merely add a bit of color commentary to round things out. 

“Coin promised she’d try to rescue the other victors, including Annie if we cooperated,” Peeta informs him between bites of dry, tasteless bread that leaves his mouth pulling down a smidge in disapproval. 

I know if we weren’t so busy he’d be clamoring for a chance to get into the kitchens. He’d be running the entire show within a day or two, having won everyone over with his smiles and his superior baking abilities. 

I’d be tempted to let him have at it, simply for the promise of good bread again. 

Maybe I could even perch on a counter and watch him knead the dough with those big strong hands—

“You’ve backed yourselves into a corner, kids,” Haymitch says with a sigh, interrupting my bread fantasies. 

Peeta gives him a look. 

“She would have found a way to make us comply. This way, we get something in return for our services. Or do you think 13 is so benevolent that they would have waited until we were emotionally and mentally fit to take up the mantles?” Peeta asks, not accusingly, but in a tone that flatly states the obvious. 

After he says it, it does seem plain to see. President Coin doesn’t strike me as a patient woman. She is used to getting her way and calling all the shots. Peeta had realized that even more quickly than I had. Maybe he’d seen it from the first. 

“She made a public announcement in front of the entire district. She can’t go back on her word now.” I tell Haymitch, almost reassuringly. Peeta and I have done alright without him. We’ve made sure that they know we’re a team and we won’t be exploited blindly. We have our voices. 

Haymitch gives Peeta a disbelieving look. Peeta merely taps a finger against the tabletop impatiently. 

“I don’t even have to ask who thought that it would be a good idea to play one-ups with a woman in possession of actual nuclear weapons, Haymitch growls. 

Peeta bristles, visibly. 

“Look, our options were limited-” he starts. 

“Boy, it's wartime. Everyone’s options are fucking limited,” Haymitch interrupts, brusquely. 

“Hey, lay off!” I hissed, leaning forward and giving Haymitch a fierce glare. 

Haymitch pauses, open-mouthed and holding up a finger as if he’s about to say something but then, he just doesn’t. He closes his mouth. He sits back. A slow grin spreads across his face. 

“So the rumors are true. You have tamed the beast,” Haymitch tells Peeta before a chortle overtakes him. 

My temper flares and I am on the verge of delivering an angry comeback, but Peeta beats me. 

“I know you mean that affectionately, but let’s not lose focus here. I know what happened on the rescue mission to save us from the Quell arena. Katniss was the priority. Over Finnick, over Johanna, and Beetee. Over me. She’s our best chance to make sure Coin keeps her word, but we need your help too, ” Peeta says in a quiet voice. His tone is non-threatening, but his words…oh his words and his expression are so somber. 

All teasing is gone from Haymitch’s expression and what is left in place is something like guilt and dogged resolution all at once. 

“It’s what you wanted,” Haymitch croaks out. Then, he clears his throat, “You knew she was the key. You lobbied for me to save her, again,” he reminds Peeta in a careful tone. 

I cut my eyes at Peeta, and he doesn’t even look sorry. He just nods once and reaches over to grasp my hand. 

I almost pull away from him, so angry am I at the unspoken confirmation of this. Not that I hadn’t expected it. Not that I hadn’t known deep down, and we had all but spelled it out for each other that night on the beach. Haymitch and his double deals. Haymitch chose me, over Peeta, again. Indignation surges up swiftly. 

“I never asked-” I begin, tone hot, eyes blinking furiously at the angry pressure that is building behind them. Because these two and their deals make me so mad, even if being angry makes me a hypocrite. Because hadn’t I done the same thing for Peeta? Made Haymitch promise to save him over me when the time came. 

“You know how I feel about you,” is all Peeta says, in explanation, in apology, perhaps, but is it an apology if he isn’t one bit sorry? 

I tear my hand away from his and cross my arms over my chest. 

“We’re all here now and I think that if the two of you don’t start being <em>honest</em> with me I will show you how beastly I can be,” I say, practically growling the words at both of them. 

“That, that right there. Is what we need to channel into the damn propos,” Haymitch says with a hint of a smile. Peeta nods approvingly, pulls my chair closer to his with a loud scrape of the metal on the floor, and wraps me in a one-armed embrace even as I pull back and scowl at him. 

“I love it when you threaten me,” Peeta whispers, so quiet I’m sure only I can hear. 

It’s a testament, really, to how far we come that I don’t automatically bite his head off, and instead grumpily settle into his side, ignoring Haymitch’s supremely amused expression in favor of finishing my bland meal. 

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The meeting the next morning goes by with very few hitches. I don’t enjoy the way Haymitch shreds our propo to pieces, but as soon as he says the words I immediately know he’s right about our performances. 

“Peeta sounds like an advertiser, and not the trustworthy kind, despite how hard he tried to pull it off. And your Mockinjay there, she’s just flat. Completely unrelatable. Now, would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the war?” Haymitch asks. 

No one does. 

“That saves time,” he says with a nod. 

Then, he has everyone going around thinking of moments when Peeta and I truly inspired them. There is a lot to choose from apparently, considering that we have two reapings, two hunger games, and a victory tour captured on camera for posterity. 

The conclusion everyone seems to come to is that Peeta is good in just about any situation but I shine when I go off script. 

Fulvia is the one who makes an off-hand remark about putting Peeta and me in combat situations. I’m pretty sure she meant it as a joke but Haymitch latches onto the idea. 

“That’s <em>exactly</em> what I’m suggesting,” says Haymitch. “Put them out in the field and keep the cameras rolling.” 

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That’s how Peeta and I end up going to Districts 8, 11, and 7. 

The damage done by the Capitol bombs and their peacekeepers is horrifying. The dead bodies, and the broken and burned homes, pale in comparison to the anger and desperation in the eyes of the survivors. 

Peeta is so good at looking each of them in the eyes. He holds their hands, he listens to their stories. He eases their pain in some vital way that has nothing to do with morphling or medical procedures. I follow his lead and it’s almost effortless. 

He’s a wonder and I find myself sinking further into that deep entrenchment of admiration and love than ever before. 

As for me, their suffering sparks a blaze inside my heart. 

"I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there's a cease-fire, you're deluding yourself. Because you know who they are and what they do." My hands go out automatically as if to indicate the whole horror around me. "This is what they do! And we must fight back!"

It's the first successful propo they manage to film of me, but it’s not the last. 

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The nights get successively harder to sleep through again, after the new things we see. 

Peeta murmurs soothing things in my ear when I wake up screaming from nightmares where the Capitol drops bombs so devastating that they reach down in the earth to District 13. In my dreams I watch my little sister and my mother and the remnants of District 12 go up in flames, or get buried under tons of rock and unmovable earth. 

“I don’t want her in this, I don’t want Prim anywhere near this war,” I tell him as I shake in his arms. 

“We’ll sit her down, and speak to her. Ask her not to sign up,” Peeta promises. 

All I can do is clutch him and cry in relief. If anyone can convince Prim to stay out of the majority of the fighting it's him, it's my Peeta. 

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Prim reluctantly agrees and continues to devote the majority of her time to the hospital ward. She and Finnick, who hasn’t been cleared yet, quickly become friends. 

“Your sister is smart as a whip,” Finnick tells me one afternoon when we make it back early enough to swing by the hospital and pick Prim up before dinner. 

“She is,” I agree. He looks at her with a sad sort of fondness and I wonder if the Capitol took a sister or a niece or a friend from him that reminds him of Prim. 

“Do you wanna eat with us in the mess tonight?” I offer tentatively. 

Finnick’s eyes light up. Peeta’s invited him many times, and Finnick had accepted occasionally on his better days. But it seems like the invitation means something different coming from me. 

“Thank you. I’d like that,” he replies in an equally hesitant, but hopeful manner. 

It’s just my luck that the Capitol chooses that night to air their first propo of President Snow giving some long judicious sounding speech while Annie Cresta and Johanna Mason stand behind him with blank faces like hollowed-out shells. 

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The next morning Peeta sounds the most unbending I’ve ever heard him sound. 

He argues with President Coin, doggedly, unflinchingly. The dark circles under his eyes only make the righteous fury in his blue irises stand out starkly as he speaks. 

“They are prisoners of war. They can’t be held responsible for what they say or do at this point. The Capitol could, and very likely is torturing them as we speak. How can we gain the trust of the remaining districts when we are so willing to abandon our allies to the brutality of the Capitol?” he asks, looking each person at the conference table in the eye, daring them to come up with an excuse. 

Coin doesn’t really have an answer for him, but she doesn’t cede control of the meeting either. She wrenches it back inch by inch reminding us that we have yet to fulfill our part of the bargain, namely, inspiring widespread rebellion to the point where storming the Capitol to rescue the other victors is an option. 

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The opportunity we’ve been waiting for comes while Peeta and I are on different assignments. I’m filming a propo on District 12 with Gale, of all people, while he’s on assignment in District 4 with Finnick who has just recently been cleared for propo work. Finnick’s improved a lot lately, and hasn’t been caught forgetting to put on pants in while. 

Boggs gathers us up and directs us back to the hovercraft swiftly, saying something about the hydroelectric dam that sends power to the Capitol having been hit. 

“Their defenses are down. We’re going to hit them before all their backup systems can kick in,” he announces. 

“But we’re all the way in 12,” I say with a frown. 

“Not us specifically, but the closest team,” Boggs replies as he checks to make sure everyone is strapped in correctly before we take off. 

“Who’s the closest team?” I ask, something like dread churning in the pit of my stomach. 

“Peeta and Finnick’s team is en route as we speak,” Boggs tells me quietly, almost remorsefully. 

I fail to choke back a shaky exhale that threatens to turn into a sob or a scream. I want to yell at whoever thought gave the order. This was not part of the plan. My chest feels tight. Panic has quickly overtaken all other thoughts. 

Beside me Gale looks over, picking up on my distress. He looks conflicted for a moment, lips pursing as if he can’t make up his mind whether to rejoice in my discomfort or not. 

Finally, nearly six years of friendship must win out because he says, carefully, “They’ll make it back. You’ve all faced worse and come back.”

 It sounds plausible considering Peeta and I made it out of a Quater Quell specifically designed to kill us, but there’s always that fear that lives in the back of my mind. The one that claws to get out, teeth bared and snapping at the thought of losing someone I need beyond reckoning. I am about a minute away from coming up with a way to commandeer this vehicle at bow point and demand the pilot fly us straight to the Capitol, even if logically, I know we’ll never make it in time to be of any help. 

Gale gives me a look that says he knows what I’m thinking and he thinks it’s a really bad idea. I am too panicked to feel even an ounce of guilt or self-consciousness. But then Boggs leans in and says in a low voice, “Commander Jackson and her team will make sure they make it back. She knows her orders. Bringing the Mockingjay’s husband and Finnick Odair back alive is the top priority.” His dark brown eyes are steady and truthful. I don’t even move to correct him when he calls Peeta my husband, I’m that distraught. 

I gulp down my fears, and nod at him. I choose to believe what he says. Partially because I know that losing Peeta at this point would be disastrous for the rebel propaganda campaign. The bigger part of me believes what Boggs and Gale are saying for the simple fact that I desperately need to. 

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They do make it back, but just barely. The hours I spend in suspended torment, seem to fade from my mind when I get word. 

Their hovercraft comes back with part of its left wing damaged and smoke billowing out of one of its engines. I catch sight of their return and watch with muted horror as the craft executes a shaky but ultimately successful landing from the small window that looks into the hangar from the hall. 

I race toward the hangar entrance but am not allowed inside. The soldiers redirect me to the hospital where they say everyone from the rescue team is going to end up anyway. 

Haymitch shows up two minutes after me and we wait for what seems like hours but is probably more like a handful of minutes until we’re admitted. 

Through a doorway, I catch a glimpse of Jackson, Peeta, and Finnick's squad leader, perspiration streaming down her face as a doctor removes something from under her shoulder blade with a long pair of tweezers. Wounded, but alive. I call her name and start toward her until a nurse pushes me back and shuts me out.

“Katniss!” It's not the voice I’ve been searching for, but it’s a welcomed one. Finnick hurries toward us, looking somewhat exhausted but also exorbitantly happy. I decided that if he looks like that, nothing serious could have gone wrong during the mission. 

“They separated us when we got back,” he says in a breathless rush, eyes darting, “The doctors just cleared me but I don’t know where they took the others. They were unconscious from the gas when we found them and —” 

"Finnick!" Something between a shriek and a cry of joy catches our attention. A lovely if  somewhat bedraggled young woman-- dark tangled hair, sea green eyes--exits one of the patient rooms and runs toward us in nothing but a sheet. "Finnick!" And suddenly, it's as if there's no one in the world but these two, crashing through space to reach each other. They collide, enfold, lose their balance, and slam against a wall, where they stay. Clinging into one being. Indivisible. A pang of happiness and relief hits me.  Finnick has his beloved back. He kisses her with such heartfelt certainty, and she, him. No one seeing them could doubt their love.

My thoughts run toward Peeta, my eyes searching frantically for any sign of him. 

Mitchell, one of the other officers on Peeta’s team, looking a little worse for wear but uninjured, finds Haymitch and me. "We got them all out. Except for Enobaria. But since she's from Two, we doubt she's being held anyway. Johanna Mason's at the end of the hall. The effects of the gas are just wearing off. Peeta’s in the room next to hers. He’s fine but he got clipped in the shoulder-” That’s as far as he gets before I’m running. 

 Peeta. Alive but injured. 

Away from Snow. Safe. Here. With me. 

In a minute I can touch him. See his smile. Hear his laugh. Haymitch is grinning at me, actually keeping pace. "Come on, then," he says, hurrying me along. I almost giggle. 

I'm light-headed with giddiness. What will I do first? Hug him? Inspect his wounds? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me the moment I’m in reach anyway. 

Celebratory kisses sound good. Fantastic even, I wonder if maybe those kisses will lead to  more in his quarters later tonight. If he’s not gravely injured I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea at all. 

Peeta's up and sitting on the side of the bed, looking tired as a trio of doctors examine him, flash lights in his eyes, and check his pulse. His right arm has a bandage wrapped around it but the dressing isn’t the heavy-duty kind reserved for serious wounds so I know he didn’t lose too much blood. He’s nodding along to their instructions or whatever it is they are telling him. 

I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he got back, but he sees it now when he turns and catches sight of me entering the room. His features register relief, then delight, and something more intense that I’ve come to know in our more intimate moments. Something like belonging or tenderness. Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and moves toward me.

 I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me too, to caress my face, I think. My lips are just forming his name when his mouth slants down over mine, tasting perfectly like sweat, smoke, and home. 

We kiss for an inordinate amount of time and it's oddly reminiscent of our reunion after our first games. Peeta even does the bit where he tries to push Haymitch aside when he starts cracking jokes about us needing to come up for oxygen. 

“Glad to see you’re okay, kid. We’ll talk later.” Haymitch departs with a final clap of his hand against Peeta’s shoulder, and Peeta turns toward him to murmur his agreement. I listen to the sound of Haymitch’s retreating footsteps and I can’t hide the relieved sound that escapes me. I just want Peeta all to myself for a minute. 

“I take it someone’s happy to see me,” Peeta quips when we finally break apart, amusement and adoration shining in his eyes as he looks down at me. 

“You are hereby banned from going on any more life-threatening missions without me,” I growl at him, clutching at the front of his uniform and pressing my face into his chest. 

“Trust me, I am not eager to do it again,” he says, arms clutching me tighter, hands trailing soothingly up and down my back. “It was a tricky escape. A trap most likely. All their guns turned back online before we could get clear of their air space. Snow was probably counting on being able to shoot all of us down. Luckily, Jackson is an ace pilot as well as a crack shot.” 

“I don’t think I’m ready to hear about the death-defying odds just yet. I just need—” I tell him, my voice straining almost to the point of breaking. 

“Shhh, I know what you need,” Peeta whispers back, planting a kiss on the top of my head, and running a hand down my hair. 

He just holds me, as everyone bustles around us, talking and asking questions that we promptly ignore, proving that he does in fact know exactly what I need. 

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That night after we escape all the commotion we walk slowly back to his compartment in companionable but contemplative silence. I break it reluctantly when we reach his door. 

“What do you think they did to them?” I ask quietly, thinking of the two souls they brought back with them from the Capitol. I bite my lip, remembering the way Johanna Mason had to be sedated when she caught sight of Finnick. She had actually tried to run towards him, attack him, it looked like, but she was so weak and malnourished that she didn’t get far or do any permanent damage. 

Peeta sucks in a breath. 

“They were being held in the Tribute Center. In a facility underneath it, actually. The op was so quick, we didn’t get the chance to investigate much. Just locate them and get them out, but…I think Snow messed with their minds, or at least Johanna’s. She seemed so sick and frail when we opened her cell. Small in a way she never seemed before. But the way she looked at Finnick when she woke up. It was like she thought he was a monster. Annie wasn’t in as bad a shape when we found her,” he replies heavily before unlocking his compartment. I nod, thinking of how Annie recognized Finnick instantly but Johanna’s eyes just seemed off. 

I suppress a shiver at the implication of his words and my own thoughts. I don’t want to think about the numerous ways the Capitol could twist a person’s mind to the point where they can’t recognize friends from foes. 

Peeta guides me through the door with a gentle hand on my lower back. 

I make it a few steps inside before I’m turning back and watching him with wide eyes, drinking in the sight of him as he works one-handed to unbutton the top half of his uniform. 

He is so beautiful, so alive, and so mine, and in the next second I can’t stand to have any distance between us any longer. 

“Let me,” I murmur, taking over for him as I slowly undo his shirt, remembering to be careful of his injured arm. 

He lets his hands fall away and I press my lips, gently to every bit of skin I can reach, as if needing to verify every inch of his skin myself.

“I need a shower. I’m all dirty, sweetheart,” Peeta says in a husky voice when my lips fall in the slight valley between the defined halves of his upper chest. 

“I don’t care,” I murmur, kissing his sweaty skin, undeterred. Peeta groans, obviously debating the merits of letting me continue my attentions. The remnants of blood, sweat, and traces of the acrid smoke they used to knock out the inhabitants of the Tribute Center while on their mission cling to his skin, but his blood beats warm and alive inside his veins and his heart pounds in a beautifully fast rhythm. It makes me forget almost everything else. But then he pulls back just slightly, most likely to tell me he needs a shower before we continue, and I can’t bear the idea of being parted from him. Even for just a few minutes. 

It's like those nights in the training center where I fear any door between us will be locked and I’ll lose him somehow. 

“We’ll take one together,” I demand more than suggest. Peeta raises his eyebrows slightly but doesn’t protest. 

He lets me lead him to the small attached bathroom and lets me strip him bare. 

We haven’t done this yet. Showering together. We’ve made love several times since that first night, but we haven’t been naked together outside of the close vicinity of his bed. 

My hands travel across his frame, touching every part of him I can reach. There’s this feeling I can’t shake like we’ve had another near miss. It takes considerable effort to turn away from him and turn on the water. I motion for him to step ahead of me, taking a few precious seconds to try and calm my riotous nerves while I slowly undress. 

The shower stall is small and a bit cramped but we make it work. I am not going to complain about being in close proximity to Peeta right now. I relish the way his large frame crowds me against the shower wall, my back pressed against the cold tiles while my front brushes against the warm expanse of his chest with every movement.

 I wash him gently, careful of his injury and he lets me examine him in detail, cataloging every bruise and scrape I can find. 

There are quite a few. 

I wrap my arms around him, clinging to him as the water sluices down on us, warm and cleansing, and I kiss the spot right next to the patch of skin where the bullet grazed him. He doesn’t so much as flinch, but it still must be tender. I make sure my lips are gentle, imparting softness and an unspoken wish to take away his pain. His eyes remain closed and his face relaxes into a slightly slack but receptive expression. He doesn’t say a word about how I’m acting. He just lets me care for him. Logically I know he’s capable of doing this himself. His injury isn’t serious, but somehow I feel like I need to do this. 

Peeta seems to know I need this as well because he bends his head without me having to ask so I can shampoo his hair with the mostly scentless standard soap District 13 stocks in all their showers. Wincing only slightly when the soap runs down over the scrapes that run over his hand. My mind cycles through the list of injuries, both old and new. I take his hand in mine, kissing the expanse between a scraped knuckle. I hate when he gets hurt and I’m not there. It makes me feel powerless. 

“Peeta.” His name tumbles out of my mouth. He automatically hugs me to himself tightly and, for the moment, our naked bodies pressed together don’t cause the usual reactions. The moment isn’t sexual, even though I think his naked form is beautiful despite the bruises and scars. 

“I’m here Katniss. I’m here. It's ok,” he tells me over and over, until finally the tears are flowing down my face, hidden surely by the stream of water but I know Peeta can sense I’m crying by the way my body shakes. 

“I can’t lose you. I can’t,” I blurt out, spluttering the words desperately and most likely unattractively against the spray of water as I tilt my face up toward his. Then I’m sobbing and he has to hold me up because my knees go weak at the thought of him not coming back, or worse, being taken prisoner by the Capitol. 

He holds me tighter, and kisses me so fiercely I almost lose myself in the warm, familiar, reassuring rhythm of his lips against mine. 

“I’m not going anywhere. Not if I can help it. Always, remember?” he whispers against my lips before he kisses me soundly again. I almost melt into him, almost. 

“We don’t always have a choice. Sometimes, it's out of our control,” I say, breaking away from him panting, on edge, maybe almost angry. But this is the kind of anger born from bone-deep fear, nothing else. 

He stills, blue eyes opening to settle on my face. His hands come up to cup my jaw before he lets his forehead rest against mine. 

“You’re right. We can’t control everything. But Katniss, I hope you know how hard I’d fight to stay with you. To get back to you, if it came to that.” He tells me quietly, firmly, and in his eyes is a wealth of determination, of love, of boundless resolve that sets to life a small quivering spark deep in my belly. 

It roils and rumbles the truth back at me, that I know this. That I know him. That Peeta is as true and steady as they come. We have faced nightmares and death together several times and lived. He has come back to me from the brink of death before. There is some assurance I can take in that. There is some relief. 

Still, I need the reassurance of his skin underneath my fingertips, of his lips and his tongue, of his body joining mine to prove to myself that I have him, that he isn’t going to slip through my fingers. 

I drag him down for a needy kiss, hands roving over his body, pressing my breasts against his chest deliberately. Peeta groans into my mouth, his hands slip down to cup the curve of my backside, even as he pins me against the shower wall. 

I moan my approval, the heavy sound passing from my mouth to his as he swallows it up with kisses and swirls of his tongue. One of my hands reaches up to grasp at his hair, while my hips rock forward of their own accord, seeking friction for that space between my thighs that clutches in anticipation of the memory of him, and the exquisite way he fills me up. 

“You think anything could ever keep me from you? That I wouldn’t fight with everything in me, tooth, nail, every molecule in my body staging its own rebellion to reach you?” Peeta asks as he changes direction and slants his lips down over the edge of my mouth, slipping and traversing the path toward my neck with single-minded intensity. 

He leaves me breathless and unable to speak. He starts sucking a bruise above my pulse point, although I’m almost certain his questions were rhetorical. 

“You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me. I don’t care if I had to survive two arenas and we’re still fighting this war. You are it, Katniss. You’re it for me. It will all be worth it every day I get to wake up with you by my side. Every night I get to hold you in my arms. That’s all I need. Tomorrow with you. Just that would be enough to balance out the nightmares and the ghosts that I have to live with. That we both have to live with. But I’m not ashamed to admit that I want more. A whole life with you, if the odds are in my favor. An entire future with you, blooming out from under the shadow of the games. Happiness. Peace. Family if you want one. Just you and me, if you don’t. But there’s one thing you can count on Katniss. And it's that I will stay. Always,” he states with a finely tuned certainty that resounds through my bones, sinking in and slating some soul-deep question that I hadn’t even thought to ask, or could put a voice to, but needed to be answered nonetheless. His words of love and a life spent with me should scare me but they inspire the opposite of fear to bloom inside my heart. I want that life. I want it more than I want Snow dead. I want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted before. 

Because I’ve known since the first hour after we were rescued in the hovercraft that there was no turning back for me. I wasn’t built to love and lose and move on. 

I only know how to go all in once I make I choice. I hold on tightly, far past the point of pain, past the point of regret, and even sanity. Something of my mother’s clinging love persists inside me, despite how I hate how weak it makes me feel.  The love I know, and carry is not the fast-blooming kind. It is slow growing, deep-rooted, and unyielding. I am not sure I will ever want a family, but I do know I want Peeta. I want him and all the years he has promised me. A wealth of happiness and peace and a life built together without the past casting shadows on our joy. 

“I need you,” I whisper, whimpering almost. 

Peeta closes his eyes slowly, his head resting against mine, as the water, now tepid and no longer hot washes over us. 

“I know, sweetheart. I know you do,” he assures me, and then he kisses my temple. “I need you, too,” he whispers as he holds me, one hand around my back, the other cupping one dainty breast in a slightly possessive manner, while he mouths little kisses against my hairline. 

“Let’s go to bed,” he says after a moment, and with a considerable effort pulls himself back. 

.

.

.

.

We towel off quietly, in no hurry. We both know where this is going and barring an actual emergency there’ll be no interruptions for us tonight. My mother has long since given up trying to persuade me to sleep in my assigned quarters at night. After a mortifying conversation where she made me promise that Peeta and I are being responsible, the subject was dropped. No one will bother us here. 

Peeta lays me down with such respect and admiration that it lays my heart as bare as my freshly showered body. Something I think will never get old. 

He kisses me until I’m out of breath, out of my mind almost with longing and anticipation for him. He slips a hand down my body, cupping and caressing my breasts as he goes, measuring the span of my hip bones as he lays the flat of his palm against my lower belly, thumb swirling in little circles even as his tongue circles one of my nipples. 

“Peeta,” I plead. I’m not above pleading I’ve discovered in recent weeks. And Peeta is not one to make me beg, he just likes to take his time. Citing all the nights he spent dreaming of what it would be like to do this together. ‘I want to go slow,’ he’d told me once, when I’d whined greedily, and wheedled him,  trying to urge him to take me faster. ‘I want to enjoy every second,’ he’d explained. ‘I waited for so long for this. For you to be ready. For us,’ he had said, and I had stopped my grumbling. Because he had waited for me. He had waited so hopefully. Been so patient. The least I could do was do the same. 

But sometimes I can’t help the way his name slips out of me, breathlessly. I can’t help the way my hips incline forward of their own accord, seeking his practiced touch at my center. He’d spent so much time learning me, and me him, that we’re experts now in bringing each other pleasure. Peeta though likes to savor whereas I prefer to rush, greedily devouring every touch and kiss, that all-consuming hunger that sings in my veins for him raising its constant song of yes, and more, and please more, chanting above the rush of sensations he draws out in me. 

Whenever we’re together like this, it’s a wonderful battle between his patience and my need, but tonight it's something different. Peeta slips his tongue into my mouth at the same instant two of his fingers work their way into my slick depths and there’s something so raw about the way he kisses me and pumps his fingers into me. It makes me keen into his mouth and rock my hips back and forth, relishing the way he touches me, wanting more of this feeling where the entire world narrows down to his lips on my neck, his hand on my hip, and his fingers filling me. 

“So wet for me,” He murmurs, almost to himself, his eyes trained on the spot where his fingers disappear inside of me with each stroke. “I can feel you gripping my fingers sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and sensual in a way he only sounds here in the privacy of this space. 

He’s right. I clench his fingers with each pass, my body steadily being driven toward its peak under his care. 

“How do you want to come? Just like this? Or on my mouth?” Peeta whispers as he nips my ear. A moan slips out of me, loud and unbidden, and I clamp my mouth shut. 

 “You can be as loud as you want.” He reminds me, fingers never losing their rhythm. His closest neighbors work the late shift. A fact that he’s happily pointed out in the past. I really shouldn’t be so self-conscious anymore but it’s just instinct to guard myself when we’re so vulnerable. Peeta however revels in the freedom of these moments. He often loses himself in the glory of it all, moaning my name without shame, loud strings of praises and encouragement falling from his lips without hesitation. 

“Everyone thinks we’re married anyway.” He has said it so many times I’m beginning to wonder if he just likes the way it sounds. I have several memories of him saying it while his blond hair and blue eyes peeked out at me from between my legs, and his hot tongue stoked the flames of my pleasure into an inferno. 

“One day, I’m going to ask you to marry me for real.” He even told me one night, while he was buried deep inside of me, hips pistoning in and out after I begged quietly and drove him into a frenzy. We both came immediately after I told him that one day I would allow it. 

I’m struck by that particular memory and the immediacy of my need to feel connected with him like that again, to come apart while he talks of our future and he loves me with his body in that determined and relentless way of his. 

“I want  you inside me. Not your fingers. Not your tongue. <em>You.</em> and I want you to tell me again how you’ll never leave. How we’re going to make it through this and come out the other side. How we’ll be together, always.” I say, voice strained and breaking on some words but eyes resolutely locked on his face. 

He stares back at me with awe and reverence and a love so sweet it’s intoxicating and sobering at the same time. 

“I can do that.” He replies, sounding almost as affected as I do. His eyes are shining, and I feel the weight of the moment settle over us. 

He leans down to kiss me, softly, anchoring us together, his eyes closed and his pulse fluttering at his neck even as my own heart beats thunderously loud in my chest. 

“I’d be happy to.” He says, eyes opening slowly as he gives me a look, so transparently pleased and unguarded it tugs at things deep within me. 

We shift until he’s lined up with me, and then he slips in smoothly, helped along because of all the time he’d put into making sure I was properly aroused and ready. 

Twin groans of pleasure spill out of us, combining gently into a sweet note of relief and anticipation for more. I shift my hips, to allow him deeper, as I always do when I want to signal to him that I’m ready. 

Peeta doesn’t miss a beat. He builds up a beautiful chorus of moans and sighs between us with every measured thrust and passion-filled kiss. Its revolutionary in the way the entire feeling sweeps through me, extending out from the place where he buries himself, to the tips of my fingers, until I can pleasure and sweetness building with every inhale. 

“Do you feel this?” He asks, eyes locked on mine. 

I nod at him frantically. 

“This is us.” He tells me at the end of one poignant thrust, demonstrating the physical before he brings one hand up between us. He takes my hand in his and places it over his heart, then he mirrors the action by placing his own large, warm palm over my stuttering heartbeat. “This is us.” My eyes fill with tears. 

He leans his head down to kiss my lips in the gentlest caress, an echo of the kiss we shared in the hovercraft as we flew away from the Quell arena. I just know that is what the kiss is supposed to remind me of. “This is us.” He reiterates, eyes locked on mine again. 

“This is real. We are real, Katniss.” He states. A tear slips freely down the curve of my cheek. I let out a tiny sob. “Yes,” I tell him, reaching up to cup his face. “Real,” I whisper as I kiss his lips. “Mine,” I murmur. “My love,” I state with as much courage as I can before I’m overwhelmed by the feelings breaking loose in my heart and soul at the same time my body starts its inevitable climb. 

“My love,” Peeta agrees in between kisses. “My sweetheart. My woman. My wife. I’m going to marry you someday. Prim and your mother will weave flowers into your hair and we’ll share bread over a fire and toast to all the things that brought us together and only made us stronger. I’ll bake cheese buns for you every day and I’ll love you thoroughly each night and when the nightmares come I’ll hold you. And you’ll hold me and we will have each other for the rest of our days.” He says, promises. 

It's so simple, the picture he paints for me, of a life together filled with good things, the best things, that I’m overcome with the beauty of it. A sharp cry breaks out of me and I fall apart, unraveled by his words and his artistry, and the way he knows me, soul to soul, and everything that would make me happy. 

I drift, boneless and languid in a sea of ebbing pleasure, watching contentedly as he begins to lose himself. His hips falter in their rhythm, his breath stuttering, and his arms straining as he gives in and lets go. I watch as his climax hits him. My eyes lazily and lovingly fix on the way he throws his head back, arches his spine, and stills, except for the haphazard jerk of his pelvis against mine. My name is a wheeze or a whine on his lips that bleeds into a low groan. His adam’s apple bobs and I watch in fascination as the flushed skin of his jaw and neck ripple with the motion of swallowing, making an elegant play of his sparse freckles. 

Yes, I think. Enjoy it, my love. I say without words and he collapses against me, my fingers pushing back the sweaty locks of his hair from his face.