Chapter Text
For some reason, my nightmares never really changed. In the three years that’d taken place since the war, I had yet to experience anything truly new or inventive from my psyche.
From Cato being eaten by mutts, having his flesh torn bite by bite from the bone beneath to Clove chasing me down until my legs give out and I land on the cold, wet dirt, having no other choice but awaiting the stab of her knife. From Mags running into the fog, only to have her body implode, to have pieces of her rain upon all of us to Finnick making it to the top of the ladder, to safety seemingly, only to fall downwards again anyways, landing right in the mutts’ grasp, his body torn to pieces in seconds, watching him suffer before I finally blew up the halo and definitively end his agony. To the haunting requiem of my little sister, standing in the Capitol Square, trying to save ailed children around her, only to be blown sky high before my very eyes. None of my dreams in the last three years have seen much change.
So I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked by what other nightmare tends to circulate my unconscious. It should have been expected—I should have expected it—that my reunion with Peeta in Thirteen would be finding its way into my dreams too.
It’s another reoccurring nightmare. One that’s come up seven or eight times since the war. But it never does get easier. The recollection of that moment never does get any easier to bear.
I think the worst part of the dream is the fact that none of it is fabricated. Unlike the nightmares of Cato and Mags, which are highly false, or even the remembrance of my sister’s death which is a bit exaggerated, this dream is the only one that is shocking and terrifying enough, all on its own merits.
It happens perfectly accurate to the reality. At least the reality according to my memory.
I walk in, excited beyond measure to see Peeta again, alive and safe. I imagine him kissing me, hugging me, holding him close to me, feeling his heart beat beneath my ear. I feel the same anticipation I felt back three years ago, as if it were happening all over again.
And I don’t know if I honestly believed, back in that moment, that our reunion would go necessarily that picturesque, but I do know that I believed it would be a celebratory moment.
I know I never believed it to go the way it did.
In the dream, just the same as my memory, I walk into the room. I race towards him, the same as him, it seems for a moment.
My lips are forming his name when his hands lock around my throat.
The dream is horrific in every way, but in no way more so than the moment the choking starts. Because in that exact second, I recognize what’s coming. I understand then it’s just a dream.
But it’s one I must live out to the end, under Peeta is cold-cocked and I’ve passed completely out from the lack of necessary oxygen.
When I wake, as always, I’m shaking in fear. There’s tears running down my face. And I’m screaming. I’m flying upwards and screaming on top of my lungs.
And Peeta, my companion in the nightmare and now in life, is next to me, already sitting up against the headboard, waiting for this to come. Waiting for me to awake and cry out.
Which is a clear indicator that I was evidently talking in my sleep.
I struggle to catch my breath for second, my whole posture hunching over as the images of the event fade from my mind.
As soon as my body language relaxes even the slightest bit, Peeta’s placing a hand on my back, very carefully. This experience isn’t new to him either, despite the fact that he can’t recall for the life of him the moment it actually occurred. Unlike every other nightmare, Peeta has learned the hard way not to touch me as soon as I wake from this one. Until I’m sure of my surroundings, until I know I’m in my bedroom, that I’m with him and he’s Peeta again and I’m safe and it’s all over, it’s not a good idea for him to touch me.
Memories of sustained bruises, claw marks across his cheek, and my surprisedly swift attack serve as proof of that.
As if the feeling of his warm hand on my now sweaty back relays me into action, I’m breaking to pieces, I’m crying real, frantic tears and lunging forward, practically throwing myself into his warm and inviting arms.
Peeta readily holds me on his lap, rocking me back and forth just as he did on the beach, after the jabberjays were done with me. Just like then, he whispers soothing words to me, trying to calm down my shaking, whispering directly into my ear.
Unlike in the arena though, Peeta leans in and kisses the shell of my ear, gently massaging it with his lips. “It’s okay,” he promises as I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his scent of vanilla and cinnamon and something entirely his own, feeling his soft skin against my cheek, having the insane urge to press my mouth to it, to feel him with my lips suddenly.
I don’t act on the impulse but it’s one I definitely consider. It’s something I imagine doing, that I never would have allowed myself to picture three years ago.
His hand trails up the side of my shirt, rubbing my bare side, trying to calm me through his soft touch. “You’re okay,” he whispers once again, his lips finding my forehead, kissing there repeatedly, like he does when we make love.
I sigh against him, feeling a shudder run through my body, like the dream has to physically work its way out. “I hate that dream,” I complain against him, my voice still not strong enough to speak and therefore breaking as I try.
Apparently my tone upsets him too because I feel him clutch me tighter now. “I know,” he says remorsefully.
“I wish I could erase it from my memory,” I continue as he kisses my hair now.
“I know, baby.”
Neither of us speak again for a long time, instead just laying in a heap against the headboard, Peeta holding me to him, never letting go for even a second.
Eventually Peeta breaks the silence. “Do you want to try sleeping again?”
I shrug, still too shaken by the visions playing behind my lids to consciously decide. “I don’t know.”
He gently scoots me off his lap, moving to lay with me on my side on the mattress, snuggling his body up close behind. Snuggling so close that I can feel every uneven breath he takes in, feel every tiny beat of his heart against my shoulder blade, feel the way his breath tickles the back of my neck.
The area feels sensitive again now, feels like it should still have bruises on it, feels like I still shouldn’t be speaking.
Unconsciously, my hand raises up to touch it, to feel it, bracing myself for the tenderness and pain that rationally I’m aware are long gone.
And of course, Peeta notices.
I feel a tear hit my shoulder, where his face is buried and my heart breaks in an entirely different way. In an entirely worse way.
“I’m sorry,” I croak softly, because I am. I hate that these nightmares, that my residual flashbacks and phantom pain all take their toll on him as well.
“No,” he refuses and I feel him tug on my hip, silently imploring me to turn around and face him. “No, this is about what I did to you. You’re not the one who’s going to apologize, Katniss.”
The tears in my eyes are still fresh though and there’s so many of them, ready to fall at a second’s notice and I can’t hold them back now.
“It wasn’t you,” I insist.
“Is that why you’re always afraid of me touching you after this dream?”
He has me there and my lip trembles even more as I break eye contact.
“No, Katniss, don’t cry,” he pleads now, his baby blues growing desolate with the request. “Come here.”
He guides my face closer to his, pressing his lips to my quivering mouth with awe and tenderness, consoling me in a way that is so intimate, it makes me grateful I didn’t realize I loved him until after the cameras were gone. Until every prying lense was as far away from me and Peeta as humanly possible. I’d never want anyone else to steal these tiny moments from us now. I want these touches to only belong to me and him.
He kisses my lips, eliciting the simmer of a spark between us that we both know I’m in no shape to build. But that’s not what these kisses are for. Peeta doesn’t want to make love. He wants to show me his love, show me physically all the ways in which he could never hurt me like that again, show me all the ways that what happened couldn’t have been him. Couldn’t have been the real him, if his life depended on it.
His lips move from my mouth to my cheek, to sides of my face, across my temples, over my forehead, my hairline, softly between my bushy eyebrows.
“My beautiful girl,” he whispers reverently and I feel his hand slide up the front of my shirt now, massaging the warm skin there.
I close my eyes as the sensation of his kisses relaxes me a little, as they replace the feeling of imminent dread, of gut digging anxiety, with a warmth, a safety, a feeling of love and peace and comfort, that only Peeta has ever been able to give me.
“I wish I could take it all away,” he whispers as his lips hover over mine again.
I surprise him by leaning up and giving him an unexpected peck. “It’s just a memory now, Peeta,” I try to say nonchalantly.
But he doesn’t seem convinced. “One you have to deal with because of me.”
“One that isn’t your fault,” I correct pointedly.
Both his hands unconsciously run up and down my ribcage now, causing me to shudder once again, for a completely new reasons this time. The sensation is enough to make me close my eyes in pleasure, enough to elicit a tingly feeling in my lower back.
“Hey, Katniss?” Peeta whispers after a soothing stretch of silence.
I know something’s on his mind when he starts a sentence like that. “What?”
“Do you trust me?” He asks in all earnestness.
My heart practically breaks in my chest, as I catch that horrible forlorn glint in his blue gaze now. “Of course I trust you, Peeta,” I affirm, reaching up sleepily and cupping his cheek. He turns his head and kisses the inside of my palm, his mouth lingering there for a beat.
“Will you lean your head back for me?” He requests, one of his hands moving to my back, the other coming to rub circles on my lower stomach, right below my belly button.
I don’t know why he’s asking and I find the request rather strange, but I do trust him and I want him to believe me—and more than anything, I want him to trust himself—so I do as he asks and tip my head back against the mattress.
I watch curiously as Peeta leans down slowly, first coming to press his lips to the cleft in the center of my chin, moving downwards subtly to kiss the underside of my jaw.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against my clammy skin. “I’m so sorry, Katniss.”
His lips travel downwards, to my neck, directly to the place where he tried to kill me. It feels like only a few minutes ago, Peeta was trying to strangle the life out of me, in the exact same spot he’s now ravishing.
“Don’t apologize,” I try to say but the words get caught in my throat as his mouth opens a little, as he applies the sweetest pressure against my throat with every ounce of care in his body.
His thumbs massage the sides of my hips, the bare skin beneath my shirt. “Don’t worry about me,” he whispers as he presses another kiss, a wet, openmouthed kiss, closer to the side of my neck now. “Just relax, Katniss. I’m right here.”
I let my eyes fall shut as he continues to suckle on my sensitive skin, his gentle kisses healing what his hands hurt.
He’s massaging a specifically enjoyable spot, near where my throat becomes my collarbone, when I hear him murmur into my flesh, “I love you, Katniss.”
“I love you too,” I whisper but his mouth moves to my pulse point and I shudder—in pleasure this time—deeply, unable to focus on verbal sentiments at the moment.
Peeta seems to understand this. He doesn’t appear to expect any sort of response to his declaration. Instead his hands trail up my body further and his lips travel back to the underside of my chin once again and I close my eyes again, letting my back roll into the mattress as my husband continues his ministrations.
I absently pet down his wild blonde curls, hoping he already knows I love him. Hoping he can sense it with every touch, every glance, every word.
With every moment that passes us by.
/
“Peeta, come on,” I complain, perhaps slightly petulantly. “You said yourself you made too many.”
He shoots me a sardonic glance, not at all coming around to my side here. “Katniss, I can make us cinnamon rolls at home.”
Still I don’t relent, the idea of waiting hours to eat the sweet pastry feeling unbearable right now. “You have three sitting right there,” I murmur, eyeing the display case meaningfully.
He smirks at me and shakes his head, leaning against the doorway between the bakery’s back room and the lobby. I know he’s merely trying to block any opportunity for me to sneak by him and steal a treat, but instead he fills me with a different desire. The way his white shirt pulls tightly against his chest now, the way it rises up at the bottom when he stretches, revealing the slightest bit of his abdomen. It fills me with a completely different kind of hunger.
Peeta remains oblivious to that though. Instead his hand creeps up my shirt teasingly, his hand rubbing my lower back. “I started with fourteen cinnamon rolls this morning. I doubt those three will last the rest of the day.”
I’m nearly over the craving for the dessert now, having a whole new desire in mind. One that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I can’t quench until closing hours. Peeta has become all about professionalism in his work place, since the bakery started growing from a small local shop to the most popular market in three districts.
“Fine,” I seemingly give in, looking a little woeful. More for the effect, to make my husband laugh, rather than any genuine emotion. “I’ll just head on home then.”
“I love you,” he says as gleeful apology, tugging me into his arms for a moment.
“Love you,” I murmur, jumping up on my tiptoes to kiss him right on the mouth.
He chuckles against my lips, before slyly untangling himself from me and backing out of the doorway and towards the currently empty public section of the business. The morning and afternoon rushes have both already come and gone. If it weren’t for Haymitch currently mopping the bathroom—or what he qualifies as mopping—we’d be completely alone right now.
“I’ll be home in a few hours,” Peeta promises, before making a mistake and turning his back on me, maneuvering back to his position behind the counter.
And I have the idea one second before he anticipates it. It’s a lost effort, as by the time I make a lunge towards the cinnamon rolls, Peeta’s already grasping my waist, swinging me upwards into his arms.
“I will lock the back door,” he threatens with absolutely no remorse in his voice. But his eyes, his pretty blue eyes that always have love in their gaze when looking at me, tell a different story.
“I’m partial owner,” I shoot back as he carries me into the back room and away from any possible customer’s view.
“Oh, is that right? Who gave you half the rights to this place?” He feigns confusion, as I settle my arms around his neck.
“You.” Our noses press together, rubbing softly. “When you married me.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs for a moment, seemingly thinking. “Well, if I gave you those rights, it’s within my power to take them away.”
I know he would never—he wouldn’t even have the option really. Even with all the changes to Panem in the last three years, it still stands that what belongs to you also irrecoverably belongs to your spouse. As long as the marriage lasts, so does your partner’s rights—but I still feign a pout.
To which he kisses away almost immediately. His mouth presses against mine for a split second, catching me unexpectedly, before swiftly traveling lower, moving down to my throat without warning.
“Peeta,” I say as he nips right where he knows I’m ticklish. I don’t even recognize my voice as I murmur his name again. “Peeta, stop.”
He smirks as his mouth trails down to where my neck and shoulder become one. “You’re going to leave a mark,” I complain, with a blatant smile on my face, as he parts his lips and sucks on my skin. Hard.
When his teeth graze my soft flesh though, I let out an embarrassing moan and pray no one comes in now, looking for bread or cake. Between Peeta leaning against the doorframe in his tight shirt and the attention my neck is receiving, it’s going to be a while before I’m going to willingly release him back to work.
I tighten my legs around his waist as his mouth moves to the opposite side, his lips planting kisses right where he can feel my heart pounding beneath his touch. For a split second, I’m extremely grateful he’s holding me up, because there’s not a shot in the dark that my legs could sustain me right about now.
“Boy?” Haymitch calls, evidently just now picking up on Peeta’s absence. “Where are you?”
Before we can even break apart, our old mentor is walking through the doorway into our privateroom. “Oh no,” he instantly sighs, leaning against the wall, holding none of the same appeal as Peeta only minutes ago. “Are we closing early tonight?”
“We,” I cherry pick, but my voice is still breathless from Peeta’s ministrations.
I hop down, steadying on my feet again, realizing regretfully that our little exchange will have to wait a few more hours.
“I’m here working, aren’t I?” The grump shoots back, but I can see from his gray eyes he’s trying not to laugh.
Peeta shoots him an irritated look, needing a moment to collect himself again. “See you at home,” he whispers to me after a beat, leaning down and kissing me goodbye.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Haymitch taunts. “I’ll help him speed up closing tonight.”
My husband and I both shoot Haymitch dirty looks now, but I don’t extend the conversation further, wanting to get home now myself. Feeling somewhat like a teenage girl who got caught making out with her boyfriend in the schoolyard—a girl I never once was—instead of a twenty-year-old woman who was sharing a moment in the back of her business with her husband.
“Goodbye, Haymitch,” I call flatly as he chuckles and makes his way back towards the cash register and display case.
“Bye,” Peeta whispers into my hair, biding me farewell for the third time at this point.
I open the back door to leave, only to remember one more thing I needed to say. “Those cinnamon rolls better be gone by closing or I’m not going to be happy you refused me.”
He swats my backside lightly in response. “When do I ever refuse you?”
I give him a suggestive look but the front door bell dings before I can speak and I know he has to go.
He leans down and places one more kiss, right on the side of my neck before heading back to the front of the shop.
“Love you.”
/
“Katniss, bloc-block me! Come on, block me. I know you know how,” Peeta instructs, his voice entirely that of a coach or trainer, not at all reminiscent of my husband.
I huff as he takes his shot, lunging at me and knocking me down onto my back, albeit gently.
I had merely suggested he tries to teach me some wrestling skills this morning. The woods were all but void yesterday and we don’t rely on what I hunt. The weather was neither great or terrible and the bakery was closed for the day. Getting Peeta to teach me some of the sport he used to do when we were in school, back when he was the second best wrestler in the team, was a secretive way to get him exercise, to get him more physical therapy than a baker would naturally be included to receive.
Only problem is, however, how intense Peeta gets when coaching me in wrestling. Or just about any physical activity aside from hunting and tree climbing. I mean be one with the outdoors but Peeta is the athlete between us. Without a doubt, I hand him that title with contest.
His attitude, if I’m being honest with myself, reminds me greatly of his entire demeanor, his entire focus, prior to the Quell. When he used to train me and Haymitch, grill us to work more, run faster, train harder. I thought at the time his intensity came from focus on the Quarter Quell—and for the most part, it was—but there is still a part of him that reminds me of the Peeta who was adamant that I train so hard, I could take a Career out without straining myself.
And I only went along with it then so that Peeta would train right alongside me. So that he could stand a chance when going toe to toe with a Career.
Now that I think of it, Peeta is the one who killed Brutus. At the last second, while searching desperately for me after I destroyed the entire arena, after I ended the final games with my arrow and the electricity from the tree, Peeta had searched for me like a wild dog with a given scent. And Brutus had stood in his way.
I know it’s wrong, but deep down, I feel vindicated in my decision to humor his grueling training back then.
I glare up at him now, feeling a little bitter that this is the fourth time he’s knocked me down on my back. I never quite could beat Peeta in wrestling, not even at our primes. He always had that on me, physical strength and a wrestling background, just like I always had the more useful hunting skill and plant knowledge on him.
I reach for his hand to help me back to my feet—in my opinion, the least he can do—but he has other plans and instead picks me up, swinging me back onto my feet.
“Come on, Katniss,” he urges softly, pushing my tangled hair behind my ear now, leaning in and kissing my cheek softly. “You’re small and you’re fast. You should be good at this.”
“Sorry,” I murmur but there’s a wry, teasing edge, blatant in my tone. “I was too busy hunting for food to practice my wrestling growing up.”
He chuckles then and I involuntarily smile a bit at the sound. “Let’s just try again,” he says and I regret every suggesting this activity all over again. “This time let’s do the double-leg takedown.”
“You only have one single leg, Peeta.”
He fixes me with a sardonic look but I shrug. It’s true, after all. Thanks of me and the torquiette in our first arena, Peeta lost most of his left leg and now walks with a prosthetic. I barely even notice anything significant about his gait these days but I suppose that’s because he’s adapted so much to the fake limb over time.
“I’m taking you down by both your legs, genius,” he explains in a slightly teasing tone.
My brow furrows for a moment, wondering if I was taught this technique before and have just forgotten it or if Peeta decidedly held out on me.
Before I can come to a decision on this though, he already has me, up in his arms and swung down onto the ground again, my back flat on the floor.
It doesn’t hurt in the least, because he stops himself from slamming me, instead pausing his speed at the last second to lightly set me down. But it wounds the ego just the same.
“This isn’t fair, Peeta. You never taught me this move before.”
He laughs now, unashamed by the deceit. “I’m sorry,” he proclaims, his voice still not serious as he moves to lean over my body, using his hands to brace himself on either side of me, pushing none of his weight on me. “I had to pick and choose what I was going to teach you and double-leg takedown wasn’t at the top of the list.”
He leans down like he’s attempting a push up and presses his lips to my jaw sweetly, like he’s trying to win favor.
I still hold out longer, hiding my satisfaction at the feel of his lips moving downwards, onto my throat. Mainly for decorum but I also just want a break from wrestling at the moment.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers again, still smirking at me for a split second before his kisses press to the center of throat, moving along to my jugular swiftly. He grips my skin between his lips gently, sucking hard on one chosen spot.
I let out an unexpected moan, as his hand creeps down my side, tugging on the waist of my pants.
“Is the front door locked?” I murmur huskily as his mouth trails further, moving down to my chest, paying every inch of me special attention.
He snickers against my breastbone but doesn’t stop his efforts. “Haymitch is already passed out drunk for the day, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, the chances now of being interrupted minimal. Peeta picks up on my body’s relaxation at the thought and very gently suggests, pressing his lips to the shell of my ear, sucking lightly, “let’s go upstairs, Katniss.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
/
“You don’t have to do this,” I maintain lightly, as Peeta’s large hands knead my back like bread dough for the bakery.
“Take care of my wife?” He reiterates incredulously, massaging lower, down over my ribs and to my lower back. “I think it’s part of my job description.”
I smirk at the comment. “You’re right,” I agree, as he rubs the lotion further into my flesh.
I fell from the lowest branch to the ground last week while hunting. It wasn’t a huge production, only caused by a mere misplacement of my foot when climbing up, and I barely made mention of it at all later that night. But evidently my body at twenty isn’t as pliable and doesn’t have the same endurance it had in my teens.
Ever since the small fall, my body—mainly my back—has been killing me, causing me searing pain when I randomly turn at the wrong angle.
I suppose Peeta either grew tired of listening to my groaning from the bathroom or he just feels sorry for me being in pain, because he instructed me to lay down on the bed while he attended to the injury.
Somewhere he discovered my mother’s healing concoctions, finding the one appropriately labeled for muscle pain. In a weird way, though I never have held much of an affinity for healing myself, I feel pride that after barely more than a year of marriage, Peeta can now differentiate between healing properties.
He folds the thin bed sheet down over my legs, rubbing me down completely, his hands massaging deeper and deeper into my skin.
“That... that feels... good,” I mumble exhaustedly into the pillow, feeling more relaxed and at peace than I have in weeks.
He chuckles at my incoherent answer. “Good.” I can hear in his tone that he’s rather proud of himself, as his touch moves to my thighs, relaxing the muscles there.
I’m so content, laying with my face burrowed in the pillow, that I don’t even notice Peeta moving closer to me, that I don’t register his proximity until he pushes my hair to one side, and leans down to kiss the back of my neck.
“Peeta,” I say, in a voice that comes out far too reminiscent of a giggle.
“Yeah?” He whispers, his mouth pressing wet kisses to skin.
I start to say many different things—mainly quips, to tease him—but instead all that comes out is, “That feels good, keep going.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, his hands moving up my sides suggestively now. “Keep going?”
I smile into the bed now, as his lips become more persistent against my neck, my shoulder blades, my spine. Shivers involuntarily run down my back and Peeta presses kisses over any gooseflesh he can find.
“Yes,” I finally manage to say, as he moves his lips across the side of my neck, stopping and staking claim at the shell of my ear, lightly suckling for a moment.
He chuckles again, just as his mouth finds my earlobe, and I hear his hushed murmur with perfect clarity. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”