There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T. S. Eliot

Peeta walks Prim and me back to our quarters. Though he holds my hand tightly, we don't speak. There was no mistaking the threat in Coin's speech. Though I had made my demands and forced her to go public with them, she'd made her own demands on me, proving that she would not let an affront go without a proper response. I understand, not for the first time, how dangerous Coin could be.

"Would you like to come in for tea?" Prim asks Peeta when we arrive at the door of our suite.

"No, I'm going to go check on Rye," He gives her his most winning smile, which seems to satisfy Prim. She turns to go inside and as soon as she does, I make to follow her but he stops me.

"It's going to be okay tomorrow." Peeta says.

I nod, though I am anything but reassured. "We just have to be very careful now. A lot of people are counting on us. All of District 12, in fact."

"And the rebellion? Panem?" he squeezes my hand for emphasis. "It's a lot to take in."

"Well, we're Victors, remember?" I say with bitter sarcasm and only just come to understand how truly angry I am at this whole situation. "We're the ones who can survive anything they throw at us. We have to find a way to make this happen too."

Peeta shrugs. "Yeah. Just wish somebody had asked us first."

"The ability to choose was never something that was really an option for us. Not during the Reaping. Not in the Arenas. And certainly not now. Coin sees me as a threat. She implied as much in today's speech."

"She'll have to learn that trying to get you to do something you don't want to do never seems to go well for anyone. It's harder to groom a Mockingjay then to catch one," he says, a slight smile lighting up his features and I can't help but smile in response. He can make any situation better, with a clever turn of phrase and a brightening of his blue eyes that I can't help but get a little lost in.

Peeta looks down at his shoes, than back up at me. He appears to struggle with something and I wait patiently for him to come to some kind of conclusion. Finally, after several moments of strained silence, in which he fidgets and clears his throat, he leans in and leaves a kiss on my cheek. It's quick but the warmth it leaves is soothing and gentle, so unlike the events of late. He seems to feel the same way, because he lingers before pulling away, shoving his hands deep into his jumper pockets. After watching the Games together earlier, there is still a lingering strangeness between us but also a certain relief. It's all out there now and there isn't any way he can feel deceived by me any longer, no matter what his brother puts in his head.

"I'll come get you tomorrow," he says, slightly breathless.

"I'm going hunting with Gale in the morning. I'll meet you at the studio instead?"

He nods and smiles again, but this time it doesn't reach his eyes and there is a slight strain around his lips. With an awkward grace, he turns away and walks in the direction of the compartment he shares with his brother. I wonder at his change of mood and let my gaze linger on him a while longer before the door slides open and my mother greets me.

"Katniss," she says. "Are you coming inside? I don't want Buttercup to get out."

As if on cue, he hisses at me from on top of the table where he is perched, as if in wait for me. Prim picks him up and settles in the middle of her bunk, murmuring and petting him. Soon, the loud rumbling of his satisfaction fills the room and despite my pure dislike for the furbag, it fills me with a deep sense of comfort also. So when my mother puts her hand on my arm, I'm actually caught by surprise, even though the size of the living quarters makes it virtually impossible for anything surprising to happen.

"Mom?" I ask, feeling that heaviness in my limbs again, the vague hunger that seems to plague me all day, follow by a wave of nausea that forces me to sit down.

"Katniss, are you okay?" she asks quietly, her glance falling to where Prim is occupied with the cat.

Today feels like a day for truths. I want to share it with her, all of it. A part of me holds back - it would make it too real if I speak the words out loud. But I'm not stupid and neither is my mother. Now that Coin upped the ante of her game, I have very few luxuries left to me and denial is not one of them.

"Nausea. Exhaustion. Some spotting. Hunger," I say and I can hear how dead my voice sounds, even to me. I see Peeta lying in a hospital bed, a tube draining the fluid from his brain, and remember what it felt like to be so close to losing him. I think of his hands on me, his mouth. The amazing feeling of being close to him and the distance that his amnesia has created. I think of Rye and his bottomless rage, as vast as his love for his brother and grief for his family. And I realize I may not be able to handle all of this after all. Because some things happen to people that they are not equipped to handle.

Mom kneels down in front of me and studies me, pressing gently on the tops of my breasts. I flinch. "Ow!" I say, brushing her hand away.

"I'm going to bring you something. All of the medical supplies are under lock and key but I'll try," she says for to herself. "You have to know once and for all, Katniss. You can't keep ignoring the signs."

I nod but I don't say anything, just scowl at her in irritation. But she's right. The truth is there and won't be turned away, no matter how much I want to ignore it. Propos. Fighting. War. And now this. I realize all I want is to go to sleep.

"I think...I think I'll lay down," I say, carefully removing my boots and socks. I consider a shower - it would be refreshing after all - and stumble towards the small lavatory. My mother picks up the clothes I've dropped and hands me a towel. She got what she wanted and now leaves me to my own devices. When I climb into bed afterwards, I find a square, foil package on the stand next to my bunk.

"What's this?" I ask, eyeing it with distrust.

My mother smiles at me as Prim, leaving a dozing Buttercup on her bed, makes her way over and picks it up, examining it. "Those are crackers. Before you get out of bed in the morning, nibble on them. They'll make your stomach feel better."

"Are you sick Katniss?" Prim asks with sudden concern, touching my forehead with the back of her hand.

"Not really. Just a little stomach upset, is all. I'll be fine." I answer. "Don't worry yourself, little Duck," I stare at the crackers with interest. "Do you have more?" I ask, pulling one of the salty squares out and taking a bite of the corner.

"I brought home a few packs," she answers, pointing to the counter, where three more foil packages stand in wait for my appetite. I smile and take the crackers from Prim.

"I'll have some in the morning but I think I'll have these now," I say, chewing carefully, ignoring, for one more night at least, the implication of all the signs my body is giving me. Tomorrow I'd do the propos and afterwards, I'll put myself in my mother's hands, and figure out a way to deal with things. But right now, I decide all I'm going to do is sleep. My complications will still be there in the morning.

I tug at the small shade on each bunk, which does a remarkably good job of blocking out the lights of the compartment. Wishing my family good night, I roll over and find, despite everything, that it is remarkably easy to slip into oblivion.

XXXXX

Gale and I are shunted up to the surface by one of the almost infinite elevators that are part of life in District 13. As Coin indicated, Gale and I are fitted with ankle bracelets, and reminded that we only had two hours. As if we would actually try to escape. Funny how little she knows me. I have everyone who matters to me in District 13. Where exactly would I go?

I'm handed my bow and arrows - everyone in District 13 is assigned a weapon but they are not allowed to keep them in their quarters. I had to check in my weapons when I returned from my visit to District 12. It's been so long since I've held it that I can almost hear the sigh of relief from the wood as my hand molds itself to it. I pass my fingers over the worn leather of my father's jacket and it's like coaxing my old self out of it again.

Gale, who carries his bow and a few snares besides, tests the tautness of the string before indicating with his head in the direction of a group of trees, after which there is the sprawl of the forest. I follow him on silent feet, watching the sun just peeking up over the trees.

We don't speak. That was never really our way, especially at the beginning of the hunt, when it is time to listen and watch the forest for signs of potential prey. We are like two parts of one being, anticipating each other's movements, watching each other's back. Back home, a wrong move or a loud conversation would scare away game and leave us with nothing more than an empty stomach. It's been so long since I've hunted that I have to rest often. But this is as close to happiness as I can get, being out here, in the open.

The animals are remarkably docile and it takes no time at all for our bags to become bulging with rabbit, squirrels and turkey. It's such a big haul that we decide to spend the rest of our time lounging by a nearby pond while Gale cleans the game.

"I start filming today," I say, with a deep scowl as I chew on mint leaves.

"Yeah," Gale answers, barely breaking a sweat as he skins the rabbit. He's been more consistent with training while I'd just as soon take a nap on the nearest rock. I don't know if it's the frown or the way I stare despondently over the lake but Gale casts a glance in my direction, shaking his head. "You know, Coin and Command aren't your enemy. It'd be great if you stopped treating them like it. I mean, they did break you out of the Arena. They got the refugees out of District 12 after it was firebombed."

"Not out of the kindness of their hearts, Gale. Everything they've done has been for their own purposes."

"Who cares? This is our chance! We can finally get rid of the Capitol once and for all. So they saved you so that you could become the Mockingjay. So they rescued survivors because they need people who can actually have children. Who cares?" He proceeds to skin the squirrel in that practiced, methodical way he had of doing everything. "You act like nobody else but you can have an agenda except you."

"I do not have an agenda!" I respond, more than a bit annoyed with him for arguing for the other side, whoever that side was.

"Everybody has an agenda. You were trying to survive, keep your family alive, save Peeta," he pauses as if he can't get past that little item on the list. "Coin's trying to overthrow the Capitol and end the nation's oppression. How is that something to get angry about?"

"I don't exactly like getting manipulated into things," I say, astounded that he, of all people, doesn't want to understand that.

"Well, it's a little late to be worrying about that. I got your back, Catnip," he says, with more animation than I've seen in a long time from him. "But you have to get behind all of this. This is what is going to change things - for everyone in Panem."

I scrape a stalk of mint leaves, the bright green burrowing under my fingernail. At some level, I get exactly what he's saying but I can't shake the mistrust. I nod even though he can't see me.

"I'll fall in line, soldier," I say, trying to soften the tension that seems to be part and parcel of our interactions lately.

Gale gives a half smile as he cleans up the remaining blood, casting the skinned parts and entrails out into the woods for some scavenger to find. "Let's head back. Out time's almost up. Want to meet up again tomorrow?"

I stand up and stretch, taking a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh air. "Yeah. It's good to have some fresh game on the lunch menu for a change."

Gale chuckles and shakes his head. In silence, we make our way to the elevators that will lead us back underground again. I want to trust and be at ease but I've seen too much of fighting and bloodshed. I've seen violence up front and unvarnished. And I've seen too much of manipulation. The last thing I want to be is another piece in someone's game.

I pause at that, as the thought of Peeta hits me like a blow to my stomach and realize how much I miss him already. He'd know how to make sense of everything, much better than I can. It's frightening to realize all the ways I need him.

XXXXX

"I'm afraid it isn't much - District 13 is not in the habit of producing large scale feature films of any kind," Plutarch says the when Gale leaves me at the studio. "We had to improvise on a few things but their engineers have been very cooperative. I think we can still produce a good product," he rambles on as I take in the small room with screens surrounded by glass. Outside is a stage with giant green screens in the background. Even with the hunting, I arrive early. I had remembered to nibbled on the crackers like my mother instructed, though they were far less appetizing in the morning than they'd been the night before. Even so, it actually had the effect she said it would and I felt significantly better at breakfast than I did the morning before.

Plutarch continues to talk, mostly about technical issues such as lighting and the difficulties of dubbing and other things I have absolutely no interest in. I let my mind wander to last night, touching my stomach involuntarily. A sudden rush of terror floods my insides and I begin panting at the thought that maybe, just maybe, my mother's admonishments might be right. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, as if to provide relief from the pressure building up inside. Plutarch is oblivious to my distress and I mask it further by circling out of the booth and onto the stage, pretending to find the vast, green screens before me of infinite interest.

"We'll add in the scenery during the editing phase. It will appear on the green screen when we film," he continues. I nod out of politeness but continue to meditate on the screen before me. As he drones on, a door to my left opens. I can hardly believe my eyes when I realize it is none other than Effie Trinket, District 12's escort, and now, apparently, a revolutionary. She wears the same standard-issue jumpsuit but she's wrapped her usually brightly colored hair in a turban. She teeters in towering heels and brightens like a beacon when she sees me. Despite the completely ridiculous figure she strikes with her attempts at brightening the drab uniforms that pass for clothing here, I'm actually very happy to see her.

"Oh!" she exclaims as she hurries toward me.

"Effie! What are you doing here?" I say as I fling my arms around her, nearly in tears at the sight of her.

"I'm a political refugee," she says, pressing my hair away from my face.

"Plutarch rescued you?"

Effie smiles and rolls her eyes at the question. "Rescued, yes, if that's what he calls it." She grips my arm and leans toward me. "You and I were both in the dark. Now I'm condemned to this life of jumpsuits." The door slides open behind her and my heart flutters happily again when Peeta approaches, taking his place at my side. He smiles at Effie, who promptly clasps his hands in hers. "Dear, boy. You can't imagine how happy I am to see you!"

Peeta nods, allowing Effie's effusions but clearly uncomfortable. He knows who she is - everyone in 12 knew who Effie Trinket was - but he certainly doesn't remember that Effie had become something more than just an escort, doesn't remember that by the end of things, she'd become a part of the team that would see it's Tributes return to District 12 as Victors at almost any cost. He is unfailingly polite but completely oblivious as he listens to her.

"It's so good to see friendly faces! Can you believe this place?" she exclaims, waving her hand in the air. "I miss...coffee!"

Peeta's eyes widen with humor but he remains serene as we exchange a glance that speaks volumes about what is going on in our minds.

"I never knew any place could be so strict! I mean, I thought at least in the higher ranks there'd be some side action." She adjusts her turban, which appears to be a schematic, most likely a map of District 13, which could actually be useful if her hair wasn't wrapped up in it. I see Peeta's lips twitching in amusement as he feigns interests in Plutarch, who labors at the control panel of the studio. "Luckily, I remembered that this," she indicates her coif, "was all the rage when I was coming up. You know, everything old can be made new again. Like democracy." She pauses, swaying with the conviction of her own reasoning and I feel the familiar urge to shake her hard rise up in me, an urge that, for her sake, I successfully push down.

"I have something for you," she says, indicating towards a desk at the farthest corner of the room, where both Peeta and I obediently follow her. She sets down a large black flip book that I only now notice she is carrying. The leather is simple but supple, clearly of the highest quality. As I sit down, I open the large cover to a series of sketches inside. There is no mistaking the hand that made them, or the pain of recognition.

"Cinna…" I whisper.

A symbol, an exact duplicate of my pin, adorns the inside cover. The sketches are nothing short of breathtaking. A girl who looks like me with a suit, swatches of material, feathers, a quiver of arrows. It's stylish battle gear. But it's not me. It's The Mockingjay.

"He made Plutarch promise not to show you this," she said. I turn the page and there I stand, arrow nocked, braid flying. Effie continues, "Not until you'd decided to be The Mockingjay on your own."

"He's dead, isn't he?" I blurt out.

Effie nods, a shadow crossing her face. "Yes, dear," she answers. Yet I already know this. I know I'll welcome him in my nightmares tonight.

"Because of me," I mutter. Peeta looks at me with mixture of curiosity and compassion but that comprehension that comes from truly understanding is missing.

"He knew the risks. As we all do. He believed in this revolution. He believed in you," Effie says.

I draw in a shaky breath. "They're beautiful."

"They have it here. It's been following you all over Panem." Effie smiled sympathetically. "There's not much in the way of a prep team here but we will make you the best-dressed rebel in history."

"Those sketches really are amazing," Peeta says. I turn the book so that he can look through them, and watch him touch the pages with a certain awe. "Cinna was a brilliant stylist, right?" Peeta asks.

"Yes," I take a deep breath, remembering the tunnel that shunted me into the Quarter Quell arena, a smear of blood still on the glass as it launched me into a water world. I hadn't had time to process his death before I was forced to fight. I know Peeta doesn't remember Cinna, doesn't remember his elegance, his kindness, his talent. He doesn't know how he won my trust the very first day I was in the tribute center, made me feel like I wasn't just a piece of meat being buffed down and offered as a sacrifice to the Capitol.

Peeta raises his eyes to mine and holds my gaze. I swear in that moment he can read all my thoughts - the horror of Cinna's death, the guilt and the grief. As Effie speaks and Plutarch moves about the glass enclosure, it's only he and I and the knowledge of things that always appear just beyond his reach. And it's suddenly all very overwhelming. How can I convey all the nuances, the infinite details of all that he has lost? Am I even up to it? When he breaks off, he leaves me to this impossible task and I choose silence as my most reliable response.

It takes Effie an hour to get me ready, applying the makeup that will make me look as if I've just emerged from battle. Peeta sits at the desk as Plutarch describes the scene, attempting to place me in the context of a great battle. The lines are simple, the demands uncomplicated but the looks of chagrin that I get from Effie and Plutarch, and even Peeta's raised eyebrow tell me that I am not achieving the effect Plutarch hopes for. I say the words. I imagine the fighting, the fire, whatever I'm told will appear on the green screen during editing. But the words hold no meaning for me. They float just above my consciousness, a collection of sounds that do nothing to move me.

After several humiliating takes in which I perform worse than the previous one, I hear the sound of clapping. Scowling, I look to see Haymitch, walking towards me as he continues to applaud.

"And that, my friend, is how a Revolution dies," comes his raspy voice, filling every corner of the room with the echo of his exhaustion. "Hello, Sweetheart," he says.

I simply stare at him - I don't appreciate being laughed at and I certainly don't like to have my pathetic attempts at acting be exposed to the ridicule of one like him. Even more so, I have still not forgiven him for his duplicity and don't wished to be forced to be civil to him just because we are in District 13. He carries a handkerchief which he uses to blow his nose and I realize he looks terrible.

"Is that how you greet an old friend," he asks?

"Maybe I don't recognize you sober," I hiss. I step off the stage and stride towards him. Plutarch protests but I simply wave him off. "I need a minute."

I lead Haymitch to the corridor adjacent to the studio. The moment we are alone, I turn on him and feel all the anger and frustration that's been bottled up inside bubble up like a champagne bottle that is ready to burst.

I open my mouth to speak but Haymitch beats me to it and, for the first time, I see real anger from him also, though his speech is measured and controlled.

"I am still your mentor and we have a job to do. So go ahead and let me have it."

My eyes widen and I feel it build up inside of me. "You are a liar and a traitor. Peeta almost died because you couldn't trust us with the truth. It was pure luck that I got him out of that Arena. I thought we were a 'team'?" I use air-quotes with derision because if there is a team at all here, it is a team of two. I would throw in my lot with Peeta over and over again before I went back to trusting Haymitch again.

"I had to do it. I've explained that to you already," Haymitch answers.

"Doesn't make it any better," I retort.

"Have you said your piece?" he asks.

I cross my arms in front of me and shrug, the quiver of bows moving with my shoulders like odd bird wings.

"Fine. My turn. Are you on vacation here or what?"

"Excuse me?" I say, dropping my arms, my hands balling into fists at my side until my knuckles are white.

"Look, Sweetheart, there's a revolution going on here and I offer my sincerest apologies that we did not get your permission before it got started," Haymitch lets every word carry his sarcasm, which infuriates me even more. "But your little performance in there, constantly missing training and your general teenage moodiness are not helping your cause, or ours, at all. Sorry I lied. But I am on my side, which is a hard place to be sometimes. Help me out by putting some effort on your part."

"I am trying!" I protest.

"No you're not," he retorts with more feeling than I've ever seen from him.

I scowl, staring him down. I still don't trust him and don't much like him but in terms of allies, I don't have many and he could be useful. I don't want to feel sorry for his withdrawals, his sniffling, his generally sickly appearance as he's weaned off the white liquor. I don't want to miss being a part of his team so I nod stiffly instead and return to the studio area without looking back at him.

The propos is finally completed after lunch. I'm exhausted and alone, as Haymitch has gone off to fit Peeta with a uniform, and I have a sudden urge for a snack and a nap. I know Plutarch isn't satisfied with the results but I feel like an idiot every time I raise what should stand in as my flag and wave it.

After another hour of torture, Effie says with forced cheerfulness, "Well, dear, that should do! Beetee has asked me to bring you down to his lab. It seems he has a surprise for you!" She is probably as horrified by the results of my dismal propos as I am but she makes a valiant effort to hide the fact. She takes me to a lower level that seems to be similar to where Peeta took me when he brought me to the bakery. District 13 hasn't lost its lack of glamour so everything still looks the same to me.

When we arrive to the Special Defense level, however, I am taken completely by surprise when I see perhaps the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in District 13. It's a replica of a meadow, filled with real trees and plants and alive with hummingbirds. I find Beetee in a chair, sitting motionless, Gale and Peeta flanking him on either side, conversing easily. It's odd to see Gale and Peeta in the same space, talking like old friends. In some poetic way, they should have been rivals for my affection, except that they've never behaved like rivals. Peeta is the picture of ease and Gale, at least, doesn't have his scowl.

As I approach, Beetee sees me first and indicates toward the hummingbirds with his head. "Can you bring a hummingbird down with an arrow?" he asks.

"I've never tried. Not much meat on them," I answer. Peeta draws my attention to a lovely green one feeding on an orange flower and I can't help but be impressed at how beautiful they are.

"No, and you're not one to kill for sport either," he says. "I bet they'd be hard to shoot."

"You could snare them," Gale says. "Lure them into a net and trap them inside."

"But would that work?" Peeta asks.

"I'm not sure. It's just an idea." Gale answers.

"It could work," Beetee says thoughtfully. "You're using their natural instinct against them. Thinking like your prey...that's how you find their weaknesses."

Something about snaring the hummingbird disturbs me so much that I don't want to talk about it anymore. I turn towards Beetee. "You have something for me?"

Beetee straightens in his chair. "Yes, actually, I have something for all of you, including Finnick and Johanna. I'll see them later, I suppose," he says as he admonishes us to follow him. I look over towards Peeta, who is lost in thought and I realize I haven't had a meaningful conversation with him all day and I feel the lack of it like a dull empty spot in my chest. When Beetee gives me my advanced bows and arrows and shows me how they work, I wait patiently for Peeta to try out his rifle and Gale to play with his crossbow, a feeling of despondency settling in my bones.

Without warning, while Beetee is distracted with Gale, Peeta clasps my hand and indicates the exit of the room. I gladly leave the two of them talking about weapons and follow Peeta back through the grim hallways of District 13. When we are away from Beetee, he pauses and tells me, "I was getting a little tired of all the company."

"Me too. I'm not much for people you know."

"I sort of got that impression," he gives me a sly smile, which reaches his eyes, crinkling the skin around it. The sight of it makes me incredibly happy.

In no time at all, we are back at the Meadow we were observing earlier. I think we are going to stop in front of the observation window but he pulls me along to a pair of sliding metals doors around the corner of what appears to be a hallway. When they slide open, Peeta leads me inside. The air is more humid than the air outside of what I now see is a greenhouse. The lights are nothing like the phosphorescent light of our living areas - here they are soft and warm and the plants seem to reach up to capture every artificial ray.

I take a deep breath and enjoy the smell of vegetation. Growing, living, dying vegetation, the irony, pungent smell of black earth, pollen, insects, trees, flowering plants - I fill my lungs with the fragrance and forget the travesty of my propos, Cinna, my advanced weapons, my uniform. I remember Peeta is with me and come back from my moment of joy to catch him watching me intently."

"You like it?" he asks.

"Yes! Very much!" I answer, making my way through the high grasses to a copse of trees that grow tall and proud towards the metal ceiling. I can almost hold on to the illusion if I refuse to look too closely. "It reminds me of our meadow at home, just beyond the fence."

"It's not like being above ground, I guess," Peeta says as he bends to pluck a few of the wild flowers.

He speaks but it is only after a few moments that I grasp the subtext in his words. I tilt my head to the side and look up at him. "Is that what this is all about? My hunting with Gale?" I barely suppress a laugh, the darkening of his features clueing me in to the fact that maybe it might not be a good idea to tease him about this.

"If you're trying to say I'm jealous, well…" He looks away in that boyish way he has of swinging his head as he flips away the hair that fall to his forehead. "I've been jealous of Gale since before I even met him. I was always so sure you two had something between you."

The idea that Peeta could still feel jealousy over Gale is absurd, but then I remember he still the Peeta from before the Reaping, the Peeta who couldn't even work up the nerve to speak to me at school, the boy who watched and waited, with no prospect of ever getting close to the object of his admiration. I step close to him, holding his gaze so he does not, under any circumstance, mistaken my words.

"You don't have to be jealous. He's my best friend and he will always ever be my best friend. That's it."

Peeta smiles, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "I have this memory...of us on top of a building, maybe on top of the world," he chuckles. "We had a picnic. We threw apples at the forcefield and they bounced back at us. You fell asleep on my lap," he shows me something he is holding - a woven crown from the wild flowers he'd just picked. I'd been so caught up with his eyes, I hadn't paid any heed to what he was doing with his hands. Raising the crown, he fits it on my head. I feel a sob rise up in my chest that I immediately pushed down.

"It was perfect," he whispered. "The fruit, the picnic, the heat…"

My heart is racing as he stares down at me covered in wildflowers. I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. "You said...you said you wanted to freeze that moment in time and live in it forever," I pick a few of the flowers and begin deftly twining them together. "You asked me if I would allow it. And I said yes." Always yes, to him, to everything he asked for. Almost everything. I didn't give him permission to die and now I'm so happy I stuck to my guns on that one. I finish my handiwork and crown him with a simple version of my wildflower chain.

Peeta smiles and it's all the encouragement I need. I step up and kiss him on his smooth cheek. His hair is still not growing in from whatever treatment the Capitol had given him and I wondered briefly if it ever would again. Regardless the feel of skin under my lips makes everything misfire in my brain and soon I can't keep any of my ideas straight anymore.

He turns his face slightly and soon, his lips are against mine. Far from the temerity of the last few days, Peeta grasps me by the waist and kisses me firmly, insistently, and I feel that familiar hunger rise up in me again. Pushing me back within the copse, a tree meets my back and I rest against it. I want this so much. I want him so much, it's not pleasure. It burns me everywhere.

Surprisingly, and to my profound frustration, he pulls back, pointing upwards where a camera is perched inside of a tree. I frown in anger, all my joy and expectation shrivelling up in me. It's just like the Arenas - you couldn't breath or eat or die in peace without some lens fixed on your every misery. Releasing a breath, I let him take me by the hand lead me out of the meadow. With every step, I try to recover a sense of myself.

"Peeta, what you remembered was a picnic we had on the roof of the Training Center. It was the day before the Quarter Quell."

Peeta smiles and nods his head. "Dr. Aguilar says I'm having breakthrough memories. It's a good sign. I have other flashes too but it's hard to place them in any context. I don't always know if they are memories or dreams…" He looks down at me. "But I feel more like...myself...as time passes."

"That's really good," I say, my heart filled to bursting with the idea that Peeta might come back after all. An idea comes to me and I brighten with excitement. "You know, if you ever wonder whether what you are remembering is a dream or a real memory, just ask me. I'll tell you whether it's real or not real," I say as we step into an elevator. I face him as the lights of the passing floors ding on the panel behind me.

"That's very clever," he says, clearly enthusiastic about the idea. "Okay, here's one. You and Haymitch are not exactly on speaking terms. Real or not real?"

He was starting with the obvious. "Real. I used to trust him but I don't anymore. He knew about the rebellion and rebel plans to break us out of the Arena but he didn't share it with us."

"For strategic reasons, I suppose," he says.

I glare at Peeta, not quite believing what I'm hearing. "Please tell me you're not defending him. You almost died."

"I get that," he says. "But...I think he's trying to help us out now. He did give you the footage of the Games…"

I sigh, tiring of this topic. I have so many more problems than worrying about Haymitch. "Ask me something else."

His lips curl into a wry smile. "Okay. You like to sleep on the right side of the bed, away from the wall and you always end up stealing the blankets. Real or not real?"

I can't help but burst out with laughter. "Real and real, though in all fairness, sleeping next to you was like sleeping next to a coal oven."

Peeta nods, considering this. His demeanor suddenly changes, becoming more serious. "You miss sleeping with me, Real or not real?"

My sharp intake of breath, together with the slow mechanical dings of the advancing floors, are now the only sounds in the elevator. It's an unfair question, because he surely doesn't remember those nights on the train or in the Training Center. But somehow, this fact nothing to discourage my honesty. "All the time."

"I don't remember all of that but I miss it all the same. Is it possible to miss something you don't remember?" he asks and I get a sense of how disorienting his gaps in memory must really be. I have no frame of reference and don't want to give him false comfort but the idea that I could have an association and now know what might be it's origin is downright terrifying. The elevator finally stops and I pull him along until we are at my quarters. I give him a meaningful look before swiping my arm before the pane, the doors silently sliding open. He pauses imperceptibly before he follows me in.

I don't say much. I think I'm going to die of nerves - how long has it been since we've done this? I would have probably tried for a nap anyway - I've been awake since before dawn and it's already been a long day. But the idea of him, now, with me is enough to chase my exhaustion away. I kick my boots off and wordlessly encourage him to do the same. The bunks aren't terribly narrow - Prim sleeps next to Mom all the time - so I sit on the edge of mine and hold my hand out to him.

Peeta grasps it without hesitation and takes a seat next to me. I bend down to pull his pants leg up over his knee and press the sides of his prosthetic until I hear the tell-tale hiss that indicates his leg is free of the rest of him. He makes to stop me but I take his hand and squeeze it.

"I've done this dozens of times already," I say, trying for a reassuring smile. He's nervous - I can tell by the slight tremor of his hand but, true to his nature, he lets me do whatever I want. I slide over a bit, making room for him to scoot in towards the wall. It never occurred to me until now how inconvenient it might be for him to accommodate my sleeping preferences, what with his leg and all but I would never be able to sleep otherwise because I wouldn't be able to protect him if I were pinned against the wall.

"You okay?" I ask as he settles onto the pillow.

"Yeah," he says, laying awkwardly. I recline next to him, carefully moving his arm out of the way so that I can claim my usual spot - head on his shoulder, my leg tangled around his whole one. As if it has a memory of its own, his arm comes to rest on my shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles on me and for the first time since I was released from the Arena, I'm finally home. Not my mother or even my sister, not Buttercup or Gale. It's Peeta's arms that finally convince me that I'm no longer in the Quarter Quell, no longer a tribute. I have other problems, of course. But I'm home. I'm safe. And with a little luck, I might even be loved.

"You're happy with me, Real or not real?" he asks, so softly, I think I am imagining his words.

"Real," I answer. His response is to squeeze my shoulder before I feel his gentle unwinding, his thudding heart pounding more slowly until his breath evens out. The world falls away and I drift off into sweet dreams that fill me with a feeling of contentment that is in every way connected to Peeta.

XXXXX

My mother is not nearly as mortified as she could have been when she comes home to find Peeta and me sleeping in my bunk. I know because the flash of overhead lights as she enters followed by the way she gasps and quickly shuts them off wakes me just in time to watch her leave again. I stretch, which is enough to rouse Peeta from his sleep also. I lift myself on my elbow to watch as his eyes flutter open, and I'm stupidly mesmerized by his lashes as they reflect the gleam of the night light that is perpetually lit in the corner of our room.

"Sleep well?" I ask as his face comes to life.

"Yeah…" he says in a voice still gravelly from sleep. He cards his hand through my now messy hair, brushing the loosened strands away from my face. He uses his thumb to trace the top of my cheeks, which leaves me somewhat dizzy with expectation and the hope that he won't stop. But at that moment, my stomach decides to rumble loudly with hunger which ruins the mood completely.

"I think someone needs to be fed," he laughs, straightening up to put his leg back on. I help him, which he allows, tugging his pant leg back down over his reattached prosthetic. Switching on the lights, I stand to look in the mirror, rebraiding my messy hair. He watches every move I make, the effect of which is so suddenly nerve-wracking, I have to restart my braid several times until I'm satisfied with the result.

"Can we...can we do that again?" he asks and I realize that he is most likely more nervous than I am, hence the compulsive staring. After all, this is what I've been missing but he doesn't even remember this between us. I turn and kneel before him, taking his face in my hands. It feels bold, bolder than what I think myself capable but I am also unbelievably needy - in need of everything he can offer me.

"I haven't slept like that in months…" I tell him. "We can do this as much as you want."

He smiles, grasping one of my hands and kissing the palm. "You would allow that?"

I shake my head as the ghost of another memory passes between us, a memory I'm glad to say we can both share again.

"I'll allow it."

XXXXX

Later that evening, I know from the look on my mother's face that we are going to have a talk. So when she calls me over, I fully expect to hear an earful about how inappropriate it is to have a boy in my bed. What would I have done if it had been Prim? I can already anticipate the conversation. And as usual, she takes me completely by surprise.

"Katniss, come here, please," my mother says pulling me to the only place in our living space that provides any kind of privacy - the bathroom.

I follow her the few steps to the tiny lavatory, shutting the door behind me. Though we are both fairly petite, the room still feels oppressive, the space seeming to close in on all sides. It reminds me of my father all of a sudden, of the dank, dark shaft that must have trapped him, suffocating him in a space not unlike this. I steady the sudden nausea from the feeling of the walls collapsing on me, reminding myself that it is just a projection of my fear.

"Look, I'm sorry about you walking in on Peeta and me like that. We were just sleeping…" I start, having constructed in my mind the perfect speech to deliver.

"I know," she says soothingly. She considers me for another moment in silence. Like me, she isn't one for excessive words. What would be the point? She pulls something out of her apron and hands it to me.

"Denial is not a good place to be, Katniss, especially if you and Peeta...have something. You're playing with your life," she says, folding the plastic tube in my hand. "Everything is heavily controlled here. This was very hard for me to come by. Don't waste it."

"What is it?" I ask.

She takes a deep breath, as if she'd rather not say. "It's a pregnancy test. You...you remove it from the package and you...urinate on the round end," she says, pulling the tube open and slipping the stick from its holder. "You only have to wait a minute - it works very quickly."

"I don't understand," I say, but I do. I understand what she wants, though I've never seen one before.

"It will tell you if there are...hormones in your urine. Pregnancy hormones."

"Mom…" I protest but it is weak even to my ears. I have no good reason to resist except that I don't want to know. A voice in my head keeps screaming, It's not possible. Why should I be pregnant?

"You are the face of the Revolution, for goodness sake!" her mother threw her hands up in frustration, her voice getting progressively louder. "You don't have the luxury of ignorance!" she practically shouts before lowering her voice again, perhaps remembering her sister just outside the door. "If you won't do it for yourself, think of Peeta. You cannot behave so irresponsibly if there is even the remotest possibility you are carrying his child."

I feel the blood drain from my face, the bitter chill that spreads through my blood. I touch my stomach, still flat, though I've put on weight since I've been in District 13. Like every other time when I was faced with a difficult or unclear decision, the mere thought of Peeta clears every uncertainty away until the truth, however uncomfortable or inconvenient, becomes clear to me. It is more than denial. It is selfishness that keeps me from resolving this uncertainty once and for all.

My brain races to stack the evidence and I can no longer unknow it. The weight gain. The exhaustion. The voracious hunger and the emotional sensitivity. The spotting that, for the last two month have stood in for my menstruation.

I set the tube on the counter and hug my mother. I don't say a word, I don't have to. She hugs me back, squeezing me gently and I feel the encouragement and comfort I've always hungered for flow from her to me. Finally, she nods in understanding and steps outside the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and leaving me with the rest of my life now sitting in two plastic pieces in my hand.

XXXXX

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, my mother sits still at the desk, waiting like the giant stones at the foot of our mountain. Prim is nowhere to be found while Buttercup sleeps peacefully in the center of the bed. I wonder briefly when we will be moved to the upper levels so the cat can do his business in peace and not in the one of the vents that leads to who knows where in the dark bowels of the earth. I walk past her and climb into my bunk, curling into a ball that faces the wall. I hear her enter the small room I've just vacated, hear the stripping of paper from the small roll, the gasp and subsequent shuffle as she wraps the pregnancy test and puts it inside of a plastic bag.

"I can't dispense it normally - I can't risk them finding it in the trash chutes. I'll have to take it to medical disposal and get rid of it that way," she mutters to herself, a nervous chatter that covers what we both now know to be true. When she's done and washes her hands, she sits at the edge of the mattress.

"When will you tell him?" she asks, carefully undoing my messy braid.

"I don't know. I…" the words die on my lips.

"You have...options. I don't want to influence you but you are still in the window to.."

"Do what," I counter, becoming irrationally angry now with her. "Get rid of it?"

My mother looks at me with pity and it infuriates me even more. "Katniss, I'm just making sure you have all the options available to you…"

"And Peeta? What do I do with Peeta? Just keep it from him? Or do I tell him and lose him?" I feel the hysteria finally pull me under. I'm drowning and my mind becomes a jumble of images - Prim hugging Lady, Peacekeepers patrolling District 12, kissing Peeta under the lightening tree, his boot under the bush, the drainage tube and a field full of wildflower chains, all ready to be wrapped around me like a fancy dress. "What do I do now?" I scream, to my mother's horror. "What do you expect me to do now?!" I've never, ever shouted at my mother before and I'm immediately sick of myself.

I turn and burst out of the compartment and race down the corridor. I know where very specific things are in District 13 - the cafeteria, the Recovery Ward, the meadow and my favorite exhaust tube. I climb inside, sealing the grated door behind me so no one can see me from the outside. I don't know anything at all in this place but one thing I do know for certain - Peeta can't know. He's nowhere near ready to deal with something like this. It would have to be my mother and my secret until...maybe until the world goes up in flames. Because who am I fooling? The way things are going around here, that's exactly the way things are going to end.

XXXXX

Many thanks to thegirlfromacrossthepond for helping me when I was stuck with the plot. The first draft of this chapter was half the size and had half the heart. She helped redirect me and the results are much better than they were. Also, I want to thank akai-echo for her unfailing support and kindness towards me, as well as pre-reading and talking through the plot that remains. There are, at most, 10 more chapters and I have a vision of where everything is going. I think some of the hard plot decisions are out of the way.

Please review and thank you for sticking to this story!