#post-mockingjay

You pass a mirror in the hallway, seeing your own crazed expression, recoiling from it, and as if it was encoded into each strand of DNA in your body, your fist is curling, arm winding, you think of the arena, this adrenaline didn’t feel so different, it’s rushing through your ears and it’s driving your fist into the glass of this poor mirror Peeta picked out from the market a year ago.

It shatters, your image splitting into a million, and perhaps that’s the boom, crash, bullet-rip that scares the wild animal in you into the bathroom down the hall.

There were no victors, you’d been told by one dear friend. You’d dare call him a father. Only survivors.

As your breathing comes in rasps, you grip each side of the bathroom sink. Things were meant to be good now, weren’t they? The Capitol no longer loomed over your life. You lived in a comfortable house with the love of your life. Haymitch lived down the street, as did your mother, in a rebuilt District 12. The victors you had grown close to, they were a quick letter away, though the furthest friend lived all the way in District 7. Peace was working its way into the fibers of your muscles, the marrow of your bones, flowing through your arteries and cooling the sharp awareness your blood had carried before the rebellion.

Bread was sitting on the kitchen counter from yesterday, fresh and wrapped in a towel. Two toothbrushes sat in a cup by your thumb. If you were to open the cabinet inside the mirror, you’d find shaving cream sitting beside your perfume.

And still, you couldn’t dispel each bruising memory. Each person you’d lost was another crack in your knuckles, which, looking down at now— they were bleeding, and a small shard of glass was lodged in your pointer’s knuckle.

As you grabbed the tweezers to pry out the mirror bit (too rashly, mind, you were picking and ripping at the raw skin with your shaking hand,) you can’t stop your mind from reeling. Spinning with thoughts of a little girl in the arena you couldn’t save, could only sing to. With memories of a man you’d come to trust, slipping down a ladder and falling to faceless, groping hands. Thoughts of a sister, a baby, her visage disappearing behind a blinding light and ear-splitting, horribly man-made sound.

Your eyes are blurred from tears. Just your luck, you continue to pick fruitlessly for that little shard of glass. Eventually you get it out, you throw the tweezers in the sink like it was refuse.

Meeting your eyes in the mirror, you take a sharp inhale. Was that you? Jesus. Your attention darts all over yourself— regaining a little bit of composure, you fix your sleeping-tank to cover your bra. You try to run your fingers, the unharmed tips of them, through your dark tresses— they’re tangled from tossing and turning in bed, though, you don’t get very far. You try to rip your nails through, thoughtlessly, and grunt at the sting at your scalp.

Your hands are moving, but your mind lags behind, as you reach inside the cabinet above the sink again, taking away your sorry image in the mirror. Bloody, cracked fingers find the scissors you use to cut Peetas hair— the memory of sweet conversations, his bare back to you, his comment about the cool steel on his nape, it reminds you to breathe.

You’re grabbing the ends of a lock of hair, tugging tight, pushing the scissors through, just below your chin, baring your teeth with effort and avoiding your image in the mirror. Saltwater once again creates a blurry mask over the bathroom, your vision leaving you a bit of a comfort right now.

A frustrated cry splits your lips, you blink the tears down your flushed cheeks— so, when Peeta appears beside you, you see him perfectly clear, his sweet brown eyes wide for a man who just woke up, his shirt wrinkled and sleep-shorts rumpled from sleep.

Peeta breathes your name, taking in what’s in front of him. He points over his shoulder as he steps to you, as if to mention the mirror, but he decides against it. His brows knit as he steps to you, he can’t help gawking a little. “Jesus, baby, what’re you doing?”

His calloused, strong hands reach for the scissors, you let him take them from you. He sets them down, his eyes darting over his wife. What a sight you must’ve been, just then, your words coming in teary gasps. “I— I just..”

“Nightmare?” You swallow hard and nod. He mirrors you, mouth hanging open slightly. He gets them too.

Peeta grasps your hands, first and foremost, inspecting them with a gentle grasp on your undamaged fingertips. You breathe deep so that you don’t speak in a sob, though your voice is terribly hushed to try and keep it even. “I’m sorry about the mirror.”

“Don’t be. Just a mirror.” Peeta dismissed, a hand on your shoulder guiding you to sit on the toilet seat. He closes the lid for you, keeping one hand grasping your fingers and the other one reaching into the cabinet, finding the hydrogen peroxide. Like he knew what to do, like there were directions on how to care for you etched behind his eyelids.

You’re just grateful he shut his dropped jaw and wasn’t looking at you with any pity. Worry, definitely. Not pity.

Peeta goes wordlessly about pouring some of the clear liquid on a towel, dabbing your knuckles. Eventually, he speaks, his voice soft as it falls on your currently-sensitive ears. “A bad one, huh?”

You nod vigorously. Peeta frowns, glancing up at you often, but you only meet his chestnut gaze once, as he’s pulling away from you. He stops, leaning over to kiss your temple. He fondles gently the cropped section of hair, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, your voice still wobbly as a woman on crutches. Peeta shakes his head.

“Why would you be sorry?” He murmurs, his hand moving from your hair to your flushed, wet cheek.

“You liked my hair,” A quiet bawl rips from your lips, your fingertips rubbing your eyes raw. Peeta pulls your hands away from your face with a featherlight touch, and leans close to you to drop a kiss into your hairline.

His voice is low, but sweet as a birdsong, “Baby, I like you. It’s just hair.” When Peeta pulls away, your eyes are on him, and he can’t help but see just a teenage girl again, ripped up in the mind, but never more beautiful regardless. He can’t help but see the girl who nursed him to health in that first arena, and the girl who made the second one bearable. The girl he’d fallen in love with, twice.

Wordlessly, he’s taking the scissors again after a quick inspection of your cleaned knuckles. He guides you by the elbows (the hand holding the scissors simply pushes his knuckles against you, obviously not wanting to cut you,) to stand.

It’s silent, as you lean slightly over the sink and let him snip away at the rest of your hair, slowly bringing the rest of the locks to the same length. The dark strands fall into the ceramic sink, floating like feathers, and you focus simply on that. Peeta looks up from his task to check up on you through the cabinet mirror, his brown eyes cautious and warm. Soft as anything. The only sound is the occasional owl that lived in the pines near your home.

The look of a man in love, a man who’d be in love with you in every scenario, and through every hardship. You’d been through so much together already— there wasn’t anything worse the world could throw at you that you couldn’t handle, not with Peeta beside you. Baking you bread. Making your chin tip back with unabashed laughter. Dipping your mattress at night, before drawing you close.

Cutting your hair over the sink over a meltdown, not shaming you, not scolding you, not even questioning you— just doing what he knew you needed him to, without your spoken instructions.

Eventually, though, your Peeta speaks, setting down the scissors and grasping your shoulders to get you to face him. He mutters your name, his brows drawn. Your eyes dart around the room, the soft yellow tiles, the Chantilly-curtained window letting a breeze rolling down from the mountains into the bathroom.

When he repeats your name you finally look at him. There it is, rolling over you in waves— shame. Embarrassment.

And there it is, receding like the tide pulling back into the ocean, a warmer feeling replacing it, when Peeta brushes a knuckle across your jaw and offers you an easy smile. “You look beautiful.”

You sniffle a little, huffing almost indignantly. He looked beautiful. His golden hair was smashed to his forehead, his sun-freckled cheeks pushed up and creasing his oak-colored eyes. After all these years, he still brought a flush to your own cheeks— if they weren’t already flushed from that breakdown. You were certain that you didn’t look as good as he did. “I look a mess, Peeta.”

“No, no. You look beautiful.” Peeta insists, shaking his head, closing his eyes a moment as if this was final. The smile that creases your tear-tracked cheeks broadens his own. “This haircut suits you.”

You hummed indifferently. Peeta tucks your freshly cropped hair behind your ear, mimicking your hum. He manages to work a soft, almost-laugh from you. That’s enough for him.

“I don’t know what got into me,” you murmur, eyes darting twixt his own. Your husband shakes his head, and it goes unsaid, but you know what he means. He knows. He understands. And it doesn’t change a thing.

“It’s okay,” Peeta cooes, his voice quiet, just for the two of you. He’s close enough to thump his forehead against yours, his hands roving up and down your upper arms. “Look at what we went through. It’s only natural.”

You press your lips together, nodding a little. You realize for the first time, that your mind is the clearest it’s been in the past ten minutes. Your breathing comes in soft, even puffs, your eyes swollen and red, but vision clear as glass. Silently, he leans forward just a bit, presses his warm lips onto yours, and you think that you could stay there forever, letting him lift you out of the mud, guide you through the murkiness that rose to your neck.

You couldn’t begin to describe just how good he was, your Peeta. Just how little you deserved him. Just how golden his heart was. Almost under your breath, you tell him, “Thank you.”

He shakes his head. Don’t worry about it, his warm eyes mutter. I’d do it again, his hand brushing up your shoulder speaks. I’m here, and i’m not leaving, a sweet, boyish smile on his face yells.

With his words, though, Peeta mutters, “I love you.” Easy as breathing. Easy as the sun rises— easy as the room lightens, just a little, as that long-forgotten nightstand clock’s fingers point a bit closer toward 5:30.

You whisper it right back to him, “I love you too.” And you mean it, from your split knuckles to your wracked mind, you mean it with your whole being. Peeta was the type of man you could trust that whole being with.

The type of man who’d wake up in the middle of the night, wordlessly cut your hair over the sink, silently take your rash bite and turn it into something beautiful. Love you in your worst moments. The type of man you could trust to take care of the wounded animal in you.

Peeta was exactly what you needed to heal.

Peeta sat on one of Katniss’ dining room chairs. They had pulled it back, further out from the table, setting a small shaving mirror on the edge, so Peeta could watch her.

‘Are you sure?’ Katniss asked one last time, standing behind him. They locked eyes through the mirror and he nodded.

‘It’s all patchy and uneven,’ he responded simply, ‘I would do it myself but...’

Katniss knew what the but was. She also felt the artificial skin on her arms and back, still tug and stretch, nearly a year after the explosion in the Capitol. Katniss had been lucky – if you can call it luck – that her burns were localized in areas that didn’t affect her mobility. But she had caught glimpses of Peeta’s sides and arms during the summer. The flames had licked his muscles in such a perfect path, that he still found reaching up uncomfortable. Stood behind him now, she could see the baby pink skin graft trail behind his neck and curl on his face.

Parts of his eyebrows were still singed off and his eyelashes still hadn't fully grown back.

Peeta finally relented and asked her to cut his hair for him. It was growing back up patchy and he hated how some of the burned off ends looked. It reminded him of too much. It held too much. Katniss agreed with some hesitation.

‘I want to be able to see the scissors,’ he explained as he set the shaving mirror down. She knew exactly why. During dinner, a few weeks back, she had accidentally triggered an episode after she quietly appeared behind him with a cooking knife in her hands.

‘I’ll wet your hair first,’ she explained, taking a spritzing bottle of water. He had also asked her to explain everything she did, step-by-step.

He closed his eyes momentarily as she brushed through his hair.

‘Your mother used to cut your hair. Real or not real?’ Peeta asked.

‘Real. During the summers when it got too hot for longer hair,’ Katniss responded simply, ‘Yours?’ she asked. He hummed in contemplation.

‘She did. We had to keep it shorter for the bakery. No one wants hair in their bread,’ he responded. ‘You put ribbons in your hair on your birthday. Real or not real?’ he asked back.

Katniss smiled painfully, ‘Real. Prim- she would insist.’ She set the brush down and Peeta’s eyes opened up again, watching her take the scissors from the table.

‘I am going to start cutting your hair now. I will start from the back,’ she explained.

He nodded, but he felt rigid against Katniss’ fingers.

‘She loved to pick them. Had a whole collection,’ Katniss spoke softly, ‘One year I remember she picked this hideous yellow one that had these brown and orange stains. I couldn’t say no.’

The blades of the scissors crunched as the first tuft of hair fell down by her feet.

‘I’m surprise you don’t remember it,’ she added.

‘I do. They weren’t that ugly,’ he forced out, ‘You should’ve seen- the- the,’ he stammered. He took a deep breath before returning back to his sentence, ‘the reaping clothes I had. All hand-me-downs,’ he said.

‘Worse than those brown trousers you had?’ Katniss asked, the scissors working on his hair still.

Peeta huffed, ‘Of course you remember that.’

While Peeta had been the shortest one out of the Mellark boys, he had had a growth spurt the summer they moved from the lower school to the higher one. He had shown up the first day with clothes too short for him.

‘I remember thinking you had exposed ankles. That you were lucky no snakes oftened in town,’ Katniss smiled to herself.

‘Sure, you are laughing at me and I am meant to believe you watched out for my well-being,’ he shook his head. Katniss steadied him again.

‘Well I also watched – okay watched isn’t the right word – but you had people talking about you. You had friends in school.’

‘Oh wow, this is how I find out people were making fun of my trousers when we were thirteen?’ Peeta asked. She felt him relaxed under her hands.

Okay, she thought, talking is good.

‘Not make fun of you. And not only then,’ she was thankful his head was bend down because she could feel her cheeks flush, ‘You know. Girls,’ she said, ‘I know I didn’t have friends but some of them did talk about you. With each other. Not with me.’

Peeta’s head shot up to look at her through the mirror and she pushed him back down.

‘Girls liked me in school. Real or not real?’ he asked. Katniss groaned.

‘I think so? I don’t know, I didn’t pay attention to stuff like that,’ she responded.

‘But you paid attention to me?’ he asked. His voice had a twinge of confusion, which made Katniss’ wall of defense break down.

‘I did.’

‘Why? Is it the bread?’

‘Partly.’

Quiet filled the room, just the crunch of the scissors. Katniss moved Peeta’s head to the side. His muscles stiffening up again.

‘I thought you were impressive,’ she continued on, ‘I’d see you carry those bags of flour from the market. I couldn’t do that,’ she said carefully, ‘And I thought your handwriting was awful. For a painter you have chicken scratches.’

Peeta rolled his eyes, ‘Gee thanks.’

‘Do you remember Ms Murray? She reshuffled the whole class once and made Seam and Townies sit next to each other. You sat in front of me. And I think I wanted to see if you wrote the labels on the cards at the bakery. So I could tell Prim. And you obviously didn’t. Completely illegible.’

Peeta was quiet, listening to her.

‘And still. You decorated at the bakery. And your handwriting was still awful. It made no sense,’ she continued on, smiling to herself, ‘I remember going around the bakery to trade once. And your dad went to bring some goods for Prim. And it was so hot that day, maybe the summer before our first – well you know when – and I saw you coming downstairs. The staircase was positioned in front of the back door. Real or not real?’ she asked.

‘Real,’ Peeta answered quietly.

‘And you walked down – I don’t think you had seen me. You were writing something down on a notebook. And all I could think about was your awful handwriting.’

‘It was a cake,’ Peeta said, his voice still not louder than a whisper.

‘Hmm?’ Katniss asked.

‘It was a cake. It was the first cake I got to make all on my own for a wedding. Mam said I could make the cake for the Harvest festival if it turned out good. I think,’ he said.

 ‘You did, didn’t you? Make the cake,’ she repositioned his head so she could reach his other side.

‘I think – no, I did,’ he affirmed.

‘I thought so. I had seen you pick up some orange and brown vials from the market. Special delivery too. And then the harvest cake was full of browns and oranges and golds. I almost wanted to ask if you had been in the woods because the colours matched the trees.

And then, that winter. You came second in the school’s wrestling competition. But you came first on the prelims, right? You tackled one of the Hob boys so quickly it almost felt personal. I never understood how you could be so good at some things and so bad at others.’

Katniss centered his head, to reach the front of his hair, ‘One last part and we are done.’

She hesitated momentarily, lifting the scissors away from him. Between the flush on his cheeks and his eyes locked on hers – she could’ve sworn she had accidentally triggered another episode.

‘You watched me,’ he said, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. Not one she could see, he hoped.

‘I – no I didn’t,’ she shut him down, returning to the work at hand.

‘Because of the bread?’ he asked again.

‘No – I don’t know. Maybe in the beginning,’ she sighed, ‘I think I was trying to figure you out for a very long time,’ her words trailed off. Embarrassed by both her own revelation but also by recognizing that she had indeed made a habit out of searching for him in a room.

Peeta watched her in the mirror, the way her fingers pinched at his curls and cut. The way she smoothed down his hair after, to make sure it looked even. The same hands that unearthed edible plants in the arena. The same hands that killed so many. The same hands that had comforted him during the Victory Tour and now made him breakfast and dinner. The same hands that had done horrible, terrible, horrifying things to him in his hazy, glossy and shiny memories.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, softly drying his hair with the towel around his shoulders.

His eyes stayed gazing at hers and she didn’t turn away. Maybe she would do tomorrow, but not right now. Not today.

I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face. These days are few and far between, where Katniss is at ease with herself, carefree enough to just have fun in the woods, and truly be the young adult she actually is. 

“I think I can do that,” I say with a nod. 

She steps closer, reaches for me with her grubby fingers, and grins. Before I can dodge her, she presses a damp kiss to my cheek, leaving a perfect muddy handprint behind on my shirt

“There,” she says, walking past me and up the porch steps, undoing her braid as she moves. “Now you match me.”

I watch her disappear inside, one muddy boot already half-off and clunking against the floorboards as she goes. There’s a trail of damp footprints and tiny leaves in her wake, and I don’t care at all. Not when the culprit is a happy Katniss. 

I press my hand to the kiss she left on my cheek, but not too hard. I like the reminder.

By the time I head inside, she’s already peeled out of her jacket and is working on her shirt, dirty fingers made stiff by drying mud. 

“You’re leaving a path of destruction, you know,” I say, brushing past her toward the stairs. “At this rate, I’ll be scrubbing the floor until next week.”

“Then you better make the bath worth it,” she tosses back without looking up, her voice half-laugh, half-dare.

I’m already smiling as I take the steps two at a time.

The tub in the upstairs bathroom is old but deep, claw footed and charming. Just big enough for the two of us. I twist the tap, test the water with my fingers, and reach for the jar of mint leaves we keep under the sink. She likes those. She says they smell like early mornings.

The water’s steaming by the time I hear her pad up the stairs. I turn to find her in the doorway, shirt loose and hanging open, her breasts on display. Her cheeks flush from the way I am looking at her, but she stands her ground.

“You gonna gawk or get in?” she asks, arms crossing with a smirk that tells me she already knows the answer.

I extend my hand toward her, and she takes it willingly, shimmying out of her shirt and letting it drop to the floor as she moves closer to the aromatic bath. Once she’s out of her clothes, I take her hand again and help her step in. She hisses at the heat, but it’s followed by a soft moan as she sits and submerges her body in the water. 

“That good, huh?” I ask, watching the way her eyes flutter closed. Her head tips back against the porcelain.

“Mmm,” she hums. “Almost worth getting stuck in a landslide for.”

“You what?” I say.

“Nothing. Get in here,” she says, cracking one eye open.

I strip without ceremony, her gaze shameless as it drifts down my body and lingers. The water is hot when I dip my good leg in, waiting just a moment to acclimate myself before fully sitting down. The warmth soothes my joints immediately, and I can see why Katniss let out that sound. It feels good. 

She shifts, her legs brushing mine underwater. It could be accidental, but the look she gives me says otherwise.

“You smell like mint and mischief,” she murmurs, reaching to trail wet fingers along my jaw.

“You smell like forest and trouble,” I shoot back, dipping my head to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Irresistible.”

Luckily, the mud was contained mostly to her clothes, so the water is only slightly murky from what was on her hands. I use a wet wash cloth to rid her face of the mud, and she leans into my touch with every swipe, sighing in that way she does when she’s content, and with a new wash cloth, I move downward. 

I start with her shoulders, gliding the warm cloth over her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. The faint sheen of dirt lifts easily, revealing the soft skin beneath. She closes her eyes again, her head tilting just enough to give me better access to the slope of her neck.

“You’re going to spoil me,” she murmurs, her voice low and lazy.

“Good,” I whisper back, tracing the line of her collarbone. “You deserve it.”

Her breath catches when I move lower, the cloth passing over the swell of her breasts with the same reverence I might give something sacred. I don’t rush. I let my fingers linger as I rinse, the barest pressure guiding the warmth of the water down her sternum, between her ribs, across the plane of her stomach. Her skin twitches under my touch.

She doesn’t speak now. Doesn’t need to. Her body does, in the way she sinks a little deeper into the tub, in the way her legs shift slightly, brushing against mine under the surface.

I lift one of her arms, careful, like I’m handling something fragile, and run the cloth along its length. Then the other. Her hands rest on my knees now, grounding us both, the water lapping gently between our bodies.

“You cold?” I ask, my voice hushed.

“Not even close,” she says, opening her eyes.

“Good,” I smile and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her damp temple. 

“Your turn next,” she says, turning her face toward me, her lips nearly brushing mine.

She shifts, the movement sending a small ripple through the water, and takes the cloth from my hand. Her fingers graze mine purposefully as she does, her eyes not leaving my face.

“Lean back,” she says softly.

I do as she asks, resting against the curve of the tub while she wrings out the cloth and begins her work. Her touch is different from mine, more teasing than reverent, but no less gentle. She starts at my neck, brushing away the sweat and faint trace of paint from earlier in the day that somehow always manages to get in places they shouldn’t. The cloth is warm, but it’s her hands I feel more than anything else. Sure, slow, unhurried.

“Oops, I missed a spot,” she says playfully, tapping the center of my chest.

“Oh? Better get it, then,” I murmur, keeping my eyes closed.

She presses the cloth there, dragging it down the line of my sternum with maddening precision. Her knuckles brush skin as she rinses, and I open my eyes, unable to help the small intake of breath that earns me a satisfied look.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, letting the cloth trail lower before shifting to my side, wrapping one arm around me for balance. Her breath is near my ear now. “You're flushed.”

“I’m in a hot bath with a beautiful woman,” I say, my voice lower than I intended. “Kind of inevitable.”

She huffs a quiet laugh, but I feel the way she presses closer, her chest against mine now, slick and warm and bold. The cloth floats, forgotten, as her hands settle instead against my shoulders, then trace lightly down my arms, curling at my wrists.

We sit like that for a long moment, the only sounds the gentle splash of water and the quiet stutter of our breathing as the heat wraps around us. There's no rush. There never is with her. Not in moments like these.

“Stay a while,” she whispers.

“Try and get rid of me,” I say with a nod, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. 

Her legs shift again beneath the water, draping over mine now, her knees bracketing my hips. Skin against skin. Warmth against warmth. She moves like she’s always known how to unravel me, and I let her, breath hitching as she settles more fully into my lap.

Her fingers slide up my chest again, this time without the cloth, tracing the line of muscle, the dips and rises she’s memorized in the moonlight, she now reacquaints herself with in daylight. The air between us crackles, but her movements stay slow, indulgent. Like she’s savoring. Like she wants to draw this out for as long as she can.

“You’re staring,” she says, voice soft but sultry, lips brushing just shy of mine.

“I’m memorizing,” I murmur back. “Every freckle. Every breath.”

She doesn’t argue, just tilts forward and kisses me, slow and deep, like we’ve got all the time in the world. And we do. The water laps against the porcelain with every shift, every gentle press of her body to mine. Her hands move again. First down my arms, then my sides, anchoring herself as she deepens the kiss, tongue brushing mine with a languid tease that makes my stomach clench and my fingers grip her hips beneath the water.

She gasps against my mouth when I pull her just a little closer, the slick heat of her skin sliding over mine, and for a breathless moment we just stay there, touching, tasting, breathing each other in.

Her forehead rests against mine, our noses brushing.

“We’re going to overflow the tub,” she whispers, smiling like she doesn’t care one bit.

“Let it overflow,” I say, catching her mouth again before she can respond.

The water has cooled by the time we pull apart, our breathing uneven, our skin flushed for reasons that have nothing to do with temperature anymore. She leans back just enough to look at me, her eyes heavy-lidded and full of heat.

“Come on,” she says, her voice husky and low as she stands, water cascading from her skin like silk. She doesn’t reach for a towel, she just holds out her hand, bold and bare and beautiful.

I take it without hesitation and let her help me from the tub.

We step carefully onto the mat, her fingers still wrapped around mine, leading me out of the bathroom and down the hall, dripping footprints in our wake. The bedroom is dim and warm, the sheets already rumpled from this morning. The scent of mint still clings to her skin, but it’s mixed now with something headier. Something wholly hers.

She turns to face me as we reach the bed. There’s no rush in the way she moves, just certainty. Just intent.

She brushes a hand along my jaw, tilting my face toward hers.

“No more interruptions,” she whispers. “Just us, here, together.”

“Just as it should be,” I murmur.