a/n: Written as part of the Spring Fling fic exchange, for Motherbirdnerd ("Birdlovesafish" on tumblr), who requested "Everlark as interns at a radio station during the Golden Age of radio."

Many thanks to Court81981, SponsorMusings, and MalTease, for their support and encouragement throughout.

Peeta leans against the wall of the small, ramshackle building and nervously fidgets with the end of his borrowed paisley tie.

As he waits, and waits, and waits for his new boss to open the door to WPNM and let him in, he looks down once again at the scrap of paper in his hand. Just to make sure, for the fifteenth time in the ten minutes he's been standing here, that he's shown up at the right time.

Six a.m., it says. He takes his watch out again and glances at its face. It reads 6:02.

Just as Peeta's about to rap on the front door – harder, this time, so there's no chance of anyone inside missing the knock – Peeta hears the tumbler of the door's lock click several times.

A moment later, the rusty old door creaks open. An older gentleman with five o'clock shadow and a half-smoked cigarette clutched between his yellowing front teeth appears in the doorway.

Peeta realizes right away that this must be Haymitch Abernathy, WPNM's station manager and the man who hired him for the summer sight unseen.

"Mellark?" Mr. Abernathy asks gruffly around his cigarette. Even though there's no one else Peeta could possibly be.

"Y-yes, sir," Peeta stammers, standing up a little straighter. He grabs the newsboy cap off his head and clutches it anxiously in both hands.

"Good," Mr. Abernathy says, nodding a little. "Come in, I'll show you around."

Mr. Abernathy gestures for Peeta to come in, and Peeta dutifully obeys.

And he tries to stem his disappointment when he sees what's waiting for him inside.

Peeta knew, of course, when he accepted this summer internship in his rural hometown of Panem, West Virginia, that his experience here would be nothing like what he's been exposed to in New York.

As a third-year broadcast journalism student at NYU, Peeta has observed and studied the most famous radio stations in the country. His faculty advisor helped found NBC studios in the 1920s, and still serves on its Board of Directors. Through Professor Heavensbee and his many connections, Peeta has met and shaken hands with Fanny Brice and Jimmy Durante. He's twice watched Victor Borge perform live.

Because Peeta is one of Professor Heavensbee's most talented students, he was also chosen last semester to help co-write some of the material George Burns used on a recent episode of Burns and Allen. When Mr. Burns and Gracie Allen read the lines he wrote into their gleaming microphones, it was the proudest moment of Peeta's life.

But when he needed to find a paying job for the summer, Peeta knew he couldn't stay in New York. He's twenty-one years old now. A grown man, as his mother loves to remind him. Peeta knows it's time for him to start saving money as best he can and start living more responsibly.

And ten dollars a week – the best pay a radio station intern is likely to find, anywhere, with times as hard as they are – stretches much further in a small West Virginian mining town like Panem than it does on Manhattan's lower west side.

Especially since this summer, Peeta will be living for free in the tiny, sweltering room above his parents' bakery.

There are trade-offs for being able to save some of his summer earnings, however. Most of them are apparent to Peeta the minute he steps through WPNM's front door.

Peeta sees, immediately, that the station is entirely contained within one very small, dusty room. In the middle of the room there is an ancient, heavily tarnished silver microphone suspended from the ceiling by a long black rod.

During Peeta's childhood, WPNM sometimes featured live performers. He guesses the musicians must have sung and played into this very microphone. But Peeta knows that the days when Panem-area residents could occasionally get live music piped directly into their homes via wireless are long gone.

Clearly, he will not be working with the likes of Victor Borge or George Burns this summer.

As Mr. Abernathy shows him around the station, Peeta notices a large gramophone on a table in the back corner. Shelves, stacked high with phonographs, line the walls.

"Your job this summer is to make sure the tunes keep playing," Mr. Abernathy tells him abruptly as he paces the small room. He points, unnecessarily, to the stacks of records lining the walls. "Every few hours, break it up with a comedy album. At noon we play the news reel from New York."

Peeta nods. "What about sponsors?" he asks. "How often do we break for them?"

Haymitch stares at Peeta silently for a long moment. Then he breaks into a bitter laugh.

"Sponsors, boy?" he asks, amused. "On Tuesdays, your pa comes in and talks about the bakery. Wednesdays, Sae comes in and lists off her weekly specials." He shakes his head. "But we don't charge 'em to talk. How can we?"

Peeta swallows thickly. He knows that radio stations can't survive without sponsors. Paying sponsors.

He doesn't know what to say.

"Today's Monday," Mr. Abernathy continues, "so, just remember to play the news at noon like I said."

Peeta walks over to the gramophone and sits down heavily in the chair next to it. He begins to sift through the pile of records closest to him.

He sighs, resigned.

In truth, Peeta has never had much of an ear for music. It was the power of modern radio to bring words – words that entertain; words that inform; words that can even transform – into people's homes and lives that drew him to broadcast journalism three years ago as a wide-eyed college freshman.

It certainly wasn't big band music or jazz.

Peeta takes a phonograph at random from a nearby shelf. He glances at the cover. Peeta's never heard of the singer or her band before, but that doesn't surprise him. He takes the record out of the sleeve and places it gingerly on the gramophone.

"I'll see you at three, kid," Mr. Abernathy tells him as he walks to the front door.

Peeta starts to panic. If Mr. Abernathy doesn't return until late this afternoon, that means Peeta will be here by himself all day.

Even though WPNM is the smallest station Peeta has ever been in, he's still a novice. He knows, theoretically, how to run a broadcast. But he's never done it alone before.

"Where… where are you going?" Peeta asks, trying to not sound unprofessional or scared. It's his first day on the job, after all. Despite his disappointment with WPNM, he wants to make a good impression. He doesn't want Mr. Abernathy to regret hiring him for the summer.

Mr. Abernathy grabs his fedora from the hat rack near the door and places it on his head. "I'm going to try and find a way to save the station, kid," he answers Peeta, gruffly. "I scraped together the money to hire you for the summer so I'd have the time to do just that."

And without another word, Mr. Abernathy walks out the door.

Peeta, a little shaken by Mr. Abernathy's words, and very nervous about his ability to handle the broadcast by himself, turns back to the gramophone and carefully places the needle on the phonograph.

He tries to remind, and convince, himself that he can do this as the room fills with the scratchy sound of jazz.

Hours later, Mr. Abernathy throws open the front door to the station. He's awkwardly balancing a tall wooden ladder against his shoulder. In his free hand, he carries a rusted metal box that Peeta guesses must be a toolbox.

Peeta's watch says it's 3:15 in the afternoon. Fifteen minutes past his official quitting time. His boss has come back not a moment too soon, Peeta thinks to himself, rubbing his eyes.

Peeta likes to think he's a diligent worker. Ordinarily, he would stay longer than expected on his first day at a new job.

But Peeta is also very gregarious. He hasn't seen or spoken with another person since Mr. Abernathy left the studio early this morning, and he's about to lose his mind with boredom.

Plus, he's already late for coffee with Gale.

So instead of offering to stay longer as he ordinarily would, Peeta walks hurriedly toward the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning, sir," Peeta says. Bracing for a possible rebuke, or Mr. Abernathy's insistence that he stay later.

But his boss doesn't acknowledge that Peeta's said anything at all. He sets up the ladder in the middle of the room, next to the ancient microphone, and digs through the open tool box.

Figuring that this is as close to a formal dismissal as he's going to get today, Peeta walks out the door and rides his bicycle down the block towards Sae's greasy spoon.

It's been over a year since Peeta has been to Sae's, the only place in Panem that can really qualify as a restaurant.

Peeta had forgotten just how thickly the smell of burned coffee and stale cigarette smoke hangs in the air here. When he walks inside the aroma hits him like a physical blow. He holds his breath a little as he slowly weaves through the tables and makes his way towards the back booth. Where he and Gale Hawthorne have always met, ever since they were young ruffians of fourteen and sixteen years old.

When he gets there he sees Gale, waiting for him with two steaming mugs of coffee.

Gale must have gone ahead and ordered one for each of them when Peeta didn't show up right at three like they'd agreed.

Feeling a little sheepish, Peeta sits across the table from Gale and grabs the mug closest to him.

"Hey," Gale says, nodding at him and smirking a little. "Glad you could make it."

Peeta nods back. He tries not to stare at Gale's hands. But he can't really help it. He sees that they're covered with traces of black grime now, and Peeta's stomach sinks. Because he knows, from a lifetime of living in Panem, that the grime will never quite wash off.

His friend's hands are miner's hands now.

"Sorry I'm late," Peeta says, averting his eyes and taking a delicate sip of his coffee. "First day, you know. Boss just got back twenty minutes ago." He shrugs. "Nothing I could really do but stick around."

Gale nods. "Yeah. I know how that is."

Peeta and Gale sit in companionable silence for a long moment after that, drinking their coffee and unwinding.

Gale is Peeta's oldest friend. Despite the radically different paths their lives have taken, they've known each other so long, and know each other so well, that silence between them is never uncomfortable.

"So how'd it go?" Gale asks eventually. He takes a nickel out of the front pocket of his faded, filthy work pants and spins it on its side on the chalky laminate tabletop. "Your first day I mean."

Peeta shrugs again. "It was great," he lies. In truth, Peeta cannot remember a more boring day in his life. "Played records. Did the newsreel. You know, radio station stuff."

Gale smiles. "That's great, Peet" he says, sincerely. "I know how hard you've worked for this."

Peeta tries to smile back at his friend. It feels like a grimace.

But Peeta would never complain about a day spent in a cool, comfortable room to his friend who just spent the past ten hours doing hard manual labor in a dank, dark hole in the ground.

"Yeah," is all Peeta says in response, nodding and trying to sound cheerful.

"Look," Gale says, pushing back his chair. "I'm sorry, buddy… but I gotta go." He looks a little chagrined. "Picked up some extra work today."

"Oh?" Peeta asks, intrigued. He's disappointed that his tardiness is keeping him from spending more time with Gale than just this. But he also knows how hard the Hawthornes have struggled since losing Gale's pa in the mines four years ago. His mama, Hazelle, takes in washing when she can, and even Gale's young brother Rory does what he can to help.

But times being what they are, there just never seems to be enough work to keep the Hawthornes clothed and fed.

Gale nods. "Yeah," he says. "And, I mean. I'm sorry I gotta go right after you got here. But. We need the money, so…"

Peeta nods hurriedly. "Of course!" he says, putting up his hands and cutting Gale off. "You need to go. It's fine."

Gale nods. He stands up from his booth and puts the nickel he'd been playing with on the table to cover his portion of the tab. Peeta knows from their many years of friendship that insisting on covering Gale's tab would be pointless. And could possibly end in blows.

"What's the work?" Peeta asks, curious.

Gale looks at Peeta and smiles. "Actually, it's at WPNM," he says. "Guess Abernathy needs a fella who knows wiring."

Peeta is surprised. "What?"

"That old microphone's shot to hell," Gale clarifies, confirming Peeta's earlier suspicions. "Abernathy came down to the mines today to ask if I could try and fix it. Said he found a gal from Twelve who used to live here in town who can sing real good. She needs the money and so she's willing to do it on air, and for cheap. Abernathy said he wants to bring her in an hour per day, starting tomorrow if he can."

Peeta chokes on his coffee.

"Yeah?" Peeta finally manages, coughing and spluttering, shocked that Mr. Abernathy shared none of these plans with him.

Shocked for other reasons as well.

It can't be her…

Gale puts on his newsboy cap. "Yeah," Gale says, sounding nonchalant. But he gives Peeta a knowing look and a wink, and he taps the brim of his hat. "Thinks it will help bring in sponsors that can pay. Be good for the station." Gale shrugs. "Good for the whole area, really." He adds, quickly.

"Dunno if I can fix that old thing. But Abernathy says he'll pay me for my time either way."

But Peeta isn't really listening to Gale anymore.

His heart and mind are racing.

"So, I'll see you around," Gale says, grinning broadly. He claps Peeta on the back, hard, before making his way to the front of the restaurant.

That night, after an interminable dinner with his mother and a long chat with his brothers, Peeta lies awake in his bed for hours, unable to sleep as he replays Gale's words over and over in his head.

Mr. Abernathy is bringing a girl into the station tomorrow to sing on the air. A girl from Twelve who used to live here in Panem. Who needs money badly enough to agree to do this. And who can sing well enough that Mr. Abernathy thinks her performing could be good for the station and possibly bring in paying sponsors.

Peeta doesn't want to let himself believe that he might actually see Katniss Everdeen tomorrow for the first time in four years.

But who else could it possibly be?

Over the years, Peeta has tried to forget about Katniss. To stop thinking about that special smile she had that was his and his alone. To forget the feeling of her soft, sensuous lips moving against his lips.

To put permanently out of mind how otherworldly her body had felt, clenched around his, the one time that she let him move inside her.

Since she left him, Peeta has tried distracting himself with other girls. But it never really works . No matter how much another girl might laugh at his stupid jokes; no matter how pretty she is, or how large her breasts might be, or how loudly she might scream when he fucks her; his mind invariably wanders back to his teenage years… and to his Katniss.

But he hasn't actually seen her since the week her pa died in the same mine explosion that killed Mr. Hawthorne.

"We're moving to Twelve," she'd told him on her front porch the last time he saw her, tears in her , West Virginia – a tiny town thirty miles down the mountain, where the Everdeens' only remaining living relations lived.

Peeta can still remember that morning so clearly, even years later. Her family's few meager possessions had been stacked in neat rows next to the porch swing. The front door with the peeling white paint was wide open, and Peeta could see Primrose, Katniss' little sister, meticulously sweeping the floor.

"Ma can't take care of us now that Pa's dead. The money's gone, and Ma's sick, Peeta. Real sick." She'd shaken her head sadly. He remembers how her long, beautiful braid had been draped over her right shoulder. Over the years he's thought, endlessly, of how tempted he'd been that morning to reach out and touch it. And how he'd done it. And how soft her hair had felt under his fingertips.

As he caressed her hair, she sang a few bars of his favorite song for him. The Valley Song. The song that rendered him an absolute goner for Katniss years ago, way back when they were very small children in Panem's one-room schoolhouse.

And then they'd clutched at each other and cried – both of them – for what felt like hours. They promised each other, earnestly, that they'd write, and would try to visit as often as they could.

But neither the Everdeens nor the Mellarks owned a car, then, and thirty miles down the mountain might as well have been a thousand. And although Peeta wrote Katniss regularly for the first six months – with excitement at first; in utter despair by the end – her letters never came.

Since then Peeta's been trying to do everything he can just to forget her.

Peeta shifts a little in his narrow bed and lets out a long sigh. He runs his hands over his face. He rubs his eyes.

If he's going to see Katniss again for the first time in four years tomorrow, what the hell is he going to say to her?

The next morning, Peeta decides to get right to the point with Mr. Abernathy. He won't be able to focus on anything else until he knows for sure.

He barges into Mr. Abernathy's office without knocking.

"Who's singing?" Peeta demands, hands curled into fists on his hips. Peeta doesn't care if Mr. Abernathy thinks him impertinent or out of line. He needs to know if it's Katniss.

Mr. Abernathy puts down the newspaper he'd been reading. He raises one eyebrow and looks at him quizzically. "Hawthorne tell you about this?" he asks.

Peeta nods.

"It's a girl you might know," Mr. Abernathy says, slowly. "She went to school with you, anyway. Her name's Everdeen." He pauses. "A real strange first name. Katniss, she said it was."

Peeta sits down in the chair across the desk from Mr. Abernathy before his knees have a chance to buckle under him.

"'Course," Mr. Abernathy continues, "We still don't know if the microphone works. Today's just a test run for her. But hopefully Hawthorne fixed it well enough yesterday."

Peeta has a million questions. When is Katniss coming? If the microphone works will she be singing here every day?

And… how is she? Does it look like she's eating enough? Is anyone courting her?

Does she miss him as desperately as he misses her?

But Peeta's tongue won't unstick itself from the roof of his mouth. And Mr. Abernathy likely wouldn't know the answers to most of his questions anyway.

So Peeta simply nods.

Mr. Abernathy gets out of his chair and walks out of his office. Peeta follows him on wobbly legs and heads towards the gramophone. He quickly sits down, not trusting his legs to properly carry his weight.

Peeta picks up a record at random – it might be one he played yesterday; he can't think straight enough right now to remember. Either way, he doesn't really care. He places it on the gramophone as carefully as his shaking hands will allow.

"The girl should be here at eleven," Mr. Abernathy tells him, looking at his pocket watch. He takes his hat off the hat rack and places it on his head as he reaches for the doorknob. "Show her around the station," he says, gesturing with mock grandeur to the walls, ceiling, and dusty floor of the tiny room they're in. "And don't be an ass to her, kid," he adds, pointing at Peeta warningly. "She's a real nice girl."

Peeta can't help but scoff. As if he could ever be an ass to Katniss Everdeen.

"The microphone switch is over there," Mr. Abernathy continues, pointing towards the wall behind Peeta's head. He opens the front door and, before walking through it, says, "I'll be listening from home so I can hear how she sounds over the wireless."

After Mr. Abernathy leaves, Peeta puts his head in his hands. He tries to take several deep, calming breaths.

But it doesn't help. It still feels like he's drowning.

Peeta tries everything he can think of to distract himself over the next four hours. Ignoring Mr. Abernathy's instructions to stick to music in the mornings, he puts on comedy albums instead. Just because he likes them better, and just because he can.

But no matter what Peeta does, the morning still drags on interminably.

Until finally, finally, at ten minutes to eleven, Peeta hears a loud, confident knock on WPNM's front door.

Peeta jumps out of his chair so quickly he knocks it onto its side.

He quickly glances back at the gramophone to make sure he didn't disrupt it. But the needle remains in place, and George Burns' whip-smart banter with Gracie Allen continues uninterrupted.

Satisfied, Peeta practically sprints to the front door and throws it open.

And it's her.

Katniss' eyes go wide as saucers and her jaw drops when she sees him.

Peeta's heart lodges itself in his throat at the sight of her.

Even in her youth, when things had been easier for everybody, Katniss Everdeen had never been a particularly curvaceous girl. Her body had always been rather spare and slim in the places where their classmates' were plumper and rounder. Her arms and legs had been lean, muscled, and strong from endless days spent hunting with her pa.

The young woman standing in front of Peeta now looks older, of course, than the girl she'd been four years ago. Her face is a little more drawn. She wears her hair up now, as grown women do, rather than down her back in the long braid Peeta used to love unwinding just to tease her.

But aside from those small changes Katniss appears more or less the same as she did when she was his. Her dress clings to her body in much the same way it always had. And to Peeta's immense relief, she doesn't wear the gaunt, pallid look he sees on the faces of so many in Panem these days. She looks fed, and healthy… and cared for.

It takes every ounce of resolve Peeta has not to gather her into his arms right then and there.

"Um…" Katniss says after a long moment of silence, her eyes still wide. They dart once, quickly, over Peeta's shoulder into the station behind him before darting back to his face. "Can I… um. Come in?"

"Oh!" Peeta exclaims loudly, clapping his hand to his forehead. He'd been so overcome by seeing her again that he'd forgotten where they were and why she was here. "Yes! Yes, of… of course." He clears his throat. "Come in… Katniss."

The corners of her mouth quirk up in a small smile when he says her name. Peeta's heart flutters when he sees it, but, flustered, he pretends not to notice.

He motions for her to follow him inside and she does.

She walks right up to the microphone – which Peeta notices looks a touch shinier today than it did yesterday – and turns to look at him. "I guess this is where I'm supposed to stand?" she asks, sounding a little lost.

Peeta nods. "Yeah. But I mean. I can get you a chair if… I mean. If you want," he stammers. He cringes inwardly at how pathetic he must sound.

Katniss shakes her head. "No. No, I want to stand."

He swallows audibly. "Oh. I mean… Okay, then."

They stand there for a long moment, wordlessly staring at each other. Her eyes roam over him brazenly, the way he so desperately wants to take in her own form. They begin at his face, trail slowly down his chest, down his legs, before going back up again to his face.

She whispers, "Peeta…." Before trailing off.

Peeta doesn't know what to say.

Except for the obvious.

"Um, you're on in five," he tries to say, but it comes out as a croak. He's furious with himself at his lack of composure in her presence.

In love with Katniss Everdeen or not, he has a job to do.

"All right," Katniss says quietly, nodding. She stands a little straighter and faces the microphone. She pulls it down a little so it's level with her face and taps it twice.

"I've never done this before," she admits, a little sheepishly. "I mean, I've sung. You know that," she says, turning to look at him again. He can feel his face flush scarlet at the memory. "But never over the wireless before," she says, sounding awed.

For the first time since arriving Katniss looks nervous.

"I'm a little scared, Peeta," she admits on a whisper.

He walks over to her. Before he can stop himself, Peeta puts his hand on her arm in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. But her whole body tenses up immediately at the contact. Her eyes flit down to the place on her arm where they are connected, and he yanks his hand away, guilty. His blush deepens.

"You'll do fine," he tells her abruptly. Chastising himself, he hurries away from her and over to the wall with the microphone switch. He flips it, and the microphone emits a brief, shrill whine.

Katniss jumps back a little, but Peeta breathes a sigh of relief. It's been a while since he's worked with equipment this old, but Peeta knows that that noise means Gale managed to fix the microphone after all.

Peeta turns to face her.

"You'll do fine," he repeats, as evenly as he can.

She looks him in the eye but doesn't say anything.

He glances at his watch, flustered again. "On in two…" he manages, holding up two fingers.

She nods. And begins to quietly sing a series of notes. Up and down. Up and down.

Peeta knows she's just warming up, but he finds he needs to sit down all the same. Her voice, even when she's just practicing scales, dazzles him as much now as it ever has.

"Thirty seconds…" he manages, closing his eyes, his voice shaky.

And then it's time.

Peeta points wordlessly at her with both hands. Even though she's never done this before, Katniss seems to understand the meaning behind his gesture well enough.

"Hello," she says, boldly and clearly, right into the microphone, with a confidence that sounds genuine. "My name is Katniss Everdeen, and I'll be singing some traditional West Virginia bluegrass for you today."

And without further ado, Katniss begins to sing the Valley Song.

Peeta has only a few moments to stare at her, slack-jawed, completely in her thrall as her voice fills the small studio, before his attention is wrested away by WPNM's telephone.

For the first time since Peeta started working here, it is ringing.

Mr. Abernathy bursts through WPNM's front door at two that afternoon.

Peeta knows he probably wants to discuss whether Katniss' performance today was a success. But that's hardly necessary.

Peeta spent nearly the entire hour Katniss was performing, and most of the hour after she left, fielding telephone calls from rapt listeners in Panem, in Twelve – even in Charleston! – all raving about the girl with the beautiful voice. Asking who she was. Demanding that she return tomorrow to sing for them some more.

One elderly caller from Twelve even insisted to Peeta that while Katniss was singing, the birds outside her home had stopped to listen. Peeta pretended to scoff at the woman. "Clearly," he had told her over the crackling static of their old telephone receiver, "that is impossible."

(Peeta believed the old woman, of course. But he's a man, for Christ's sake. He could hardly admit to believing in such a thing without sounding completely daft.)

No, they don't need to discuss whether asking Katniss to return to WPNM makes sense. The listeners simply adored her.

Fortunately, his boss cuts right to the chase.

"We got a paying sponsor today, boy," Mr. Abernathy says, hanging his hat on the rack and rubbing his hands together. He looks happier than he's looked since Peeta met him. "A seed shop down in Twelve. Pretty successful one, too." He pauses a little. "Successful for Twelve, anyway," he clarifies, quickly.

Peeta nods, understanding. If Panem is poor, then Twelve is positively destitute.

Mr. Abernathy smiles a little. "They're damn proud of their local girl. Said they'll come on up to WPNM each and every Monday morning and talk about their stuff on the air. And pay us five dollars a week for the privilege. On the condition, of course, that Ms. Everdeen keeps singing here, on the air, an hour every day," he continues.

"I see," Peeta says, in a tone he prays sounds only moderately enthusiastic. Peeta hopes his boss can't hear the rapid increase in his heart rate at his words, or detect the butterflies that have suddenly taken up residence in his stomach.

"Paying two interns is gonna put WPNM in a bit of a pinch," Mr. Abernathy muses quietly, almost as if to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. "At least at first. But I think that gal will pay for herself, and probably you, too, before the end of the summer."

Without waiting for a response from Peeta, Mr. Abernathy walks back to his office and closes the door behind him.

Peeta reaches for a jazz album at random and places it on the gramophone. He dimly registers that music is playing, but he can't really hear it.

On the condition, of course, that Ms. Everdeen keeps singing, on the air, an hour every day.

According to Mr. Abernathy, he'll likely be seeing Katniss every day this summer.

Peeta closes his eyes and tunes out the jazz that's playing. He focuses instead on the dulcet sound of Katniss' voice, the only music that's ever meant a damn to him, still ringing in his ears.

Peeta is so engrossed in thoughts of Katniss, and what he might say to her tomorrow morning, as he bicycles home from WPNM an hour later that when she calls out his name from the park bench he almost doesn't hear her.

"Peeta!" Katniss calls out again, loudly enough this time to finally attract his attention.

He slams on his breaks so hard it nearly sends him flying over his handlebars.

Peeta climbs off his bicycle, more than a little shaken, and turns to look at her. She's stifling a giggle in her palm.

The sight of Katniss smiling at him makes him smile, too, in spite of himself.

"Katniss?" he asks her, surprised. Katniss' musical spot ended more than three hours ago, and he assumed she'd have gone home by now. "What are you still doing here?" he asks.

She sighs a little. "My cousin Thom was supposed to fetch me, but he never came. An hour ago I went to the drug store downtown and used their telephone. Called home, and Primrose said Thom's truck broke down and he can't come get me after all." She shrugs. "So I'm waiting here for the seven o'clock train back to Twelve."

Peeta shakes his head in the negative.

"Nonsense. I'll take you home," he says, as firmly as he can. Because what else can he do? He's a gentleman. He can't just let her sit here and wait outside for hours in the hot sun.

Katniss arches an eyebrow at him. "On your bicycle?" she asks skeptically.

Peeta looks down at his bicycle and starts to blush.

"Well, no," he admits, sheepishly. "I need to go home and get my family's vehicle first."

He gathers his courage and extends his hand.

"Will you let me drive you home, Katniss?"

He worries, at first, that she will say no. That whatever led her to leave all his letters unanswered when she moved to Twelve four years ago will cause her to decline him now.

But she looks him right in the eye. She nods and stands up.

She takes his proffered hand.

"Yes," she tells him, quietly. "I will. And thank you."

Peeta smiles nervously at her, his arm erupting in gooseflesh.

He clears his throat and tries to regain his composure.

"Ok then," he tells her. He drops her hand and mounts his bicycle. "Just wait right here," he says, eagerly. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

It's a very warm day, and the interior of Peeta's father's Chevrolet is stifling.

About five minutes into the drive, as beads of sweat start to form along Peeta's hairline, he suggests they crank the windows down. "It'll make things cooler in here," he says loudly, over the clanking noise of the car's engine.

"All right," Katniss says. She pauses a moment to study the crank she'll need to use to take down her window. Nodding to herself, she rotates the crank with one hand as she wipes her own brow with the other.

The wind that whips through the vehicle does cool them down. But it also creates so much noise that talking is nearly impossible.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peeta sees Katniss looking out her open window, a wistful expression on her face, her chin in her hand. He wonders, desperately, what she's thinking right now, and he can't decide if this lack of conversation between them is a good or a bad thing.

After forty-five minutes of driving in near silence, Peeta pulls off the road and comes to a complete stop in front of the house Katniss tells him is hers.

It's a modest home – just as the Everdeens' home in Panem had been modest. There's a white picket fence around it that looks freshly painted. In the back, Peeta sees a goat and some chickens pecking at a small patch of dry grass.

Peeta can't help but feel a little awkward, parking an automobile like this one in front of Katniss' house. He doubts many families in Twelve can afford one, and he worries, suddenly, that his family's vehicle being here will make Katniss uncomfortable. That it might stand out, here, as an ostentatious display of Panem's relative wealth.

As Katniss reaches for her door handle, Peeta tells her, abruptly, "I should go."

Katniss shakes her head. "No," she says, firmly. "You just did me a big favor. Stay for supper."

She looks at him and gives him a timid smile. "Please, Peeta," she tells him quietly. "I want you to stay."

And Peeta smiles back at her, his resolve crumbling into nothing, knowing full well that he'll never be able to deny Katniss Everdeen anything she wants.

She opens her car door and steps outside into the warm summer afternoon. He follows suit, and walks a few paces behind her towards her home.

Peeta isn't prepared for the crush of people that greets them when they enter her house. And from the stunned look on Katniss' face, neither is she.

It seems to Peeta that Twelve's entire population must be crammed into the small living space the Everdeens share with her cousin Thom and his family.

"She's here!" someone that Peeta cannot see shouts from the back of the room.

A raucous cheer goes up, and then suddenly excited hands are grabbing at Katniss from all directions, pulling her away from Peeta, pulling her into the town's enthusiastic embrace.

"Quiet!" shouts a booming voice. Someone that Peeta vaguely recognizes as Katniss' cousin Thom comes into view. "Let's give the girl some room! She's had a helluva day."

The room quiets down a little in response to that, but not much.

"Katniss!" a girl's voice rings out, suddenly. Primrose, Katniss' sister, weaves through the crowd and gives her sister an affectionate hug.

"I'm so proud of you, Katniss," she tells her, lovingly. Peeta has never been especially close with either of his brothers, and his heart clenches a little at the sight of the Everdeen sisters' obvious affection for each other.

"Hey, little Duck," Katniss says happily after Primrose pulls away. "Look what I have for you."

Katniss digs into the pocket of her dress and pulls out a slightly crumpled five dollar bill. She hands it reverently to her younger sister and her face breaks into a broad grin.

"Mr. Abernathy wants me to come back and sing again," she tells Primrose. "Every day, in fact. Monday through Friday. And he'll give me one of these," she clasps her sister's hand that clutches the money, "each and every time I sing over the wireless."

Primrose's mouth drops open and her eyes fill with tears. Peeta hadn't realized Mr. Abernathy planned to compensate Katniss so well – much better than he's being paid, in fact – but he's glad for it. He knows that these days, twenty-five extra dollars per week can mean the difference between a family going without and a family eating three squares a day.

He's certain that this is not lost on either of the Everdeen sisters.

Katniss takes Primrose's face in her hands and she looks into her eyes.

"We're gonna be fine," she tells Primrose earnestly, nodding. She smiles again and kisses her sister's forehead. "We're gonna be just fine."

Primrose wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

"You know, Katniss," she says, smiling a little, clearing her throat like she's about to change the subject. "These folks are all here because they were hoping you'd sing for them again."

Katniss' eyes go wide as she scans the crowd. "Really?" she asks, incredulously.

"Really," Primrose confirms, nodding. "They loved you today, Katniss. Won't you sing for them now?"

Peeta glances up at Katniss' face. He can tell she's trying to decide.

The Katniss he knew years before was an intensely private person. Singing over the radio like she did today could not have been easy for her. He can't imagine she would have done it if her family weren't in pretty dire straits. Even still, actually coming up the mountain to WPNM and singing on the air must have taken a great deal of courage and inner strength

As he watches her now, she stands up straighter and squares her shoulders. She steps forward into the room a little. She clears her throat.

"It would mean so much to them, Katniss," Primrose says on a whisper, still trying to convince her. But Peeta knows that Katniss has already made up her mind.

He leans against the wall behind him for support as she begins to sing.

"Are you, are you
Coming to the tree
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…"

Peeta's heard the song before, but it isn't one he knows well. Everyone else in the room seems to be very familiar with it, however, and the room falls silent as her voice fills the small room.

His eyes gravitate towards Katniss' lips as they form the words. He didn't really get a chance to observe her earlier while she was performing, or even hear her properly, tied as he was to WPNM's telephone.

He lets a contented sigh fall from his own lips as the sound of her voice, and the shape of her mouth, invade all of his senses.

In all, Katniss performs four songs for her neighbors.

After her fourth song – as the assembled crowd continues to plead with her to sing just one more for them – Katniss closes her eyes and shakes her head no. She takes a small step backwards, towards Peeta. Wordlessly letting them know the show is over.

Picking up on her signal, Thom steps in front of her and tells everyone, his hands in the air, that if they want more, they're just going to have to wait for her show on the wireless tomorrow like everybody else.

The people in the room seem to accept this.

As friends and neighbors finally begin to file out the front door, one by one, they take turns embracing Katniss, congratulating her, and wishing her well in her new "career."

Peeta notices that Katniss' back stiffens a little more with every handshake and well-intentioned compliment. Her smile grows a little more strained. More false. It's clear to him that she just wants this impromptu show to be over, and for everyone to leave her house and leave her in peace.

Slowly, and practically unbidden, his arm reaches up to wrap around her shoulder. It's a reflex, really. One that years of physical distance from Katniss has apparently done nothing to diminish.

When Katniss is suffering, Peeta is simply incapable of not offering her comfort.

When Peeta realizes, in horror, what he's done, he braces himself for her anger. For her to turn on him and shove him out her front door with everyone else.

But as the well-wishers continue to press upon her – upon both of them, now – she leans into his embrace. Grabs his free hand with one of hers. Gives it a squeeze.

Peeta swallows the lump in his throat and tightens his hold on her as people continue to file past them, out the front door, and into the hot summer sun.

After the last neighbor finally leaves, Peeta assumes that Katniss will let him go.

But she doesn't.

She doesn't let him go during dinner. Not even when Thom, eyes narrowed, suspicious, repeatedly glances to where their linked hands disappear under the table.

She doesn't let him go during dessert, while Primrose regales everyone with funny stories she heard at market today. Katniss' fingers idly trace invisible patterns on his kneecap as her sister talks, and the effect on him is electric. There is nothing in the world but her fingertips dancing over his skin, covered only by the thin material of his slacks. Peeta can hear people around him laughing but he can't really say for sure what Primrose is talking about.

And Katniss doesn't let him go afterwards, when the dishes are finally washed and put away, and the sun has gone down, and everybody else in the house has gone to bed, and he has her pressed up against the side of his father's car, his tongue in her mouth and her hands curled into fists in his hair.

"Katniss," he murmurs, panting now, pulling away from her a little so he can trail open-mouthed kisses up the delicate neck he's missed so desperately. He wants to memorize the feel of her, the taste of her skin, just in case this is all an elaborate dream and in the morning a memory of her is all that's left.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, as he begins to lathe the juncture of her neck and shoulder with his tongue. She whimpers a little.

The noise she makes causes the insistent throbbing between his legs to intensify, and he's suddenly desperate to get her out of her dress and into the backseat of his father's Chevrolet as quickly as possible. But her words stop him, and bring him back to his senses enough to remember that, really, words are what's needed, now.

"All… all right," he murmurs, forcing himself to hold back. And he waits, because he knows that the words that need saying must come from Katniss. He looks into her eyes, which are half-lidded and dark. Her breath is coming heavy and fast. He suspects his is, as well.

"I'm sorry for before," she clarifies, unnecessarily. "For when we were young," she adds.

Peeta knows what she's referring to, of course. He waits for her continue, because as badly as he wants her right now, this is an explanation he needs to hear.

"I was scared," she tells him. She takes his face in both hands and pulls him down to her for another kiss. He hums against her lips, but she quickly pulls back.

"I never told you, exactly, what losing my pa did to my ma," she continues. "It destroyed her, Peeta. And there's nothing sure in this world anymore." She shakes her head emphatically. "There just isn't. I was afraid to invite in that kind of pain by loving you so much, with us both so young." She closes her eyes and shakes her head again. "And I was young, Peeta. We both were."

His heart clenches painfully at her words, but he pulls her to him and kisses the top of her head.

"By the time I'd realized what I'd lost, it was too late," she murmurs against his shoulder. "You were off to New York."

He flushes in shame. Because when he looked for a college to go to, finding one that was far away from Panem – and from Katniss – had been one of the most important deciding factors.

"I don't know if I'm the same girl I was when I left you," she whispers into his ear. Her breath tickles a little, and his eyes flutter closed. "I don't know if you'll love the girl I am now, Peeta."

He holds her closer, and steels his courage.

"I'd like to have the chance to find out for myself," he murmurs into her hair, his voice husky. "Will you allow it?"

She doesn't respond right away, and her silence turns his blood to ice in his veins.

But eventually, finally, she nods.

"Yes," she tells him quietly. "I'll allow it."

Peeta takes a deep breath, and slowly lets it out.

He strokes the sides of her face as he looks down at her. She gives him that smile again. His smile. The one he hasn't seen in four years.

He grins broadly at her and leans his forehead against hers. She blushes a little and kisses the tip of his nose.

Sometime later –- Peeta can't tell if it's been days, or maybe just a few hours, since dinner - when they're in the backseat of his father's car and he has her dress hiked up to her ribcage and her legs are wrapped around his waist, he laughs.

College; his mother; his future – none of it matters right now. His head spins with possibilities as he pushes into her and captures her quivering mouth in another kiss.