My mother frowns, prodding at the heel of my foot. I jerk it away with a wince. "I think it's broken. At least a week on bedrest," she says. "Maybe longer."

A whining noise escapes my throat as I drop my head back onto my pillow. Fantastic. A week in bed with a broken foot, completely useless while rebellion simmers around the country.

"You want breakfast?" she continues, tucking the covers back up under my chin. I nod. At this point, my stomach feels like it's eating itself. "Okay, I'll bring something up. Are cheese biscuits okay?"

Cheese biscuits are more than okay – but she'd have to run all the way across town to the bakery to get them. I shake my head. "It's okay, I can just eat whatever we've got in the kitchen."

She smiles a little. "We've got them in the kitchen. Peeta brought them over this morning. He didn't want to wake you up."

"Oh." I'm surprised, and a little annoyed. A part of me wishes he'd stayed – I'm not looking forward to spending the whole day by myself or making awkward conversation with my mother. But it's already noon, and Peeta rises so early most mornings he was probably here by sunrise.

"I'll bring it up in just a minute. Don't go anywhere," she jokes weakly. I just roll my eyes.

Breakfast is hot chamomile tea and cheese biscuits warmed up in the oven. I devour four in a row – they're that good – and only regret it a little when my stomach starts to protest minutes later.

Mom returns to my bedroom an hour later with a wicker basket. "I thought you might want something to occupy yourself while you're stuck in bed," she explains, settling onto the edge of the mattress beside me. I scoot myself up against the headboard to peer into the basket. It's full of yarn – dozens of balls of fuzzy, multi-colored yarn.

"This looks like it might be better suited to Buttercup," I say drily. Mom shakes her head as she pulls two long, wooden needles from the bottom of the basket. "Where'd this come from?"

"Cinna included it with all those fabrics he sent for your fashion talent." Of course. My "talent." That explains why I've never seen the basket of yarn before. "Do you still remember how to knit?"

I do, vaguely; she'd taught me one winter, a year or two ago, in one of her occasional attempts to get me interested in anything but hunting in the woods. "Sort of."

"Well, here, I'll show you again…" she begins, picking out a ball of blue yarn. "First you make the slipknot –"

"Wait," I interrupt. She watches patiently as I pull the wicker basket closer and close my fingers around the orange yarn instead. It had caught my eye as soon as she'd set the basket down onto the bed – probably because it stands out bright against the dark blues and greens and browns that dominate the selection.

Mom shows me how to create a slipknot with the soft orange yarn, and casts on enough stitches to make a scarf. She knits the first row, then watches me carefully as I complete the second. There's some kind of muscle memory at work, because the motions come fairly easily, though I'd never gotten very good at this in the past.

"I think you've got the hang of it," she says after I've knit a few rows in silence. I don't answer, concentrating so intently on the needles that I don't even notice she's left the room until the door clicks shut behind her.

My mother was right: It's nice to have something to do with my hands when I'm immobile in bed all day. But after an hour I've managed to produce less than an inch of the scarf, and I give up in frustration. I'm sore and tired, anyway, and I spend most of the afternoon drifting in and out of sleep.

The night, though…

It's unbearable.

By the time my door creaks open the next morning, I'm in the worst mood possible. "Go away," I grumble, rolling onto my side to face away from the intruder.

The voice that answers isn't what I was expecting. "Oh, sorry."

I know that it's Peeta before I can even crane my neck around to see him. "No, wait," I say. "I'm sorry. I thought you were my mom."

Peeta laughs, taking a hesitant step towards me. "Hi."

"Hi," I reply, pushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I must look like a mess, after tossing and turning all night. But it's not like Peeta's never seen me this way before. I have no reason to feel self-conscious.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, lowering himself into the chair beside my bed. I think of the other night, when he'd held my hand, clasped between both of his own, until the sleep syrup carried me off into a deep, dreamless sleep. It's a nice memory, a comforting one, and I feel a little better as I remember how safe and relaxed I'd felt at that moment.

"Okay," I say, shifting the pillows behind me so I can sit upright. "My mom said my heel's broken, so I'm stuck here for at least a week, probably more."

Peeta frowns sympathetically, nodding his head. "Yeah, she told me. I'm sorry. That must've been some slippery ice."

So he hasn't forgotten the lie I'd told about how I injured myself – and I can tell that he wants to know what I was really doing that landed me in such a mess. But we both know that if any room in this house is bugged, it's definitely my bedroom. That conversation won't be happening until I'm back on my feet and out of the Victor's Village entirely.

I don't answer, and he seems to take the hint. "I brought more cheese buns over," he continues, switching to a safer topic. "Your mom said they perked you up yesterday."

I raise an eyebrow at his admission. "She did?"

"I already knew you loved my cheese buns," he says confidently, and it prompts a short laugh from me.

"Then why'd you come up here empty handed?"

And then – because he's Peeta – he sits up instantly, ready to run downstairs and bring me a plateful of pastries. "Shoot. I'm sorry, I –"

"No, no," I say quickly, reaching out to grab his hand before he can move any further away. "I'm kidding. I'm not even hungry yet." It's a lie – I could eat another four cheese buns right now, easily – but I don't want Peeta running around my house to fetch me meals, like an Avox servant in the Capitol.

"You sure?" he presses, waiting for my nod before he sits down in the chair again. Our hands are still clasped between us, stretching his arm out, and he leans towards me slightly rather than letting go.

"Do you have plans today?" I ask him.

One shoulder lifts in a shrug. "Not really. I told my dad I might stop by the bakery, but my mom doesn't really want me around. Thinks I'm bad for business."

He says it lightly, like it's funny that his own mother won't even let her son hang around the home where he grew up because she fears they might lose a few bread sales. I squeeze his hand sympathetically. "That's ridiculous."

He smiles sadly. "Anyway, I'm pretty much free."

I don't know what's stopping me, but I can't just come out and ask him to spend the day with me. After everything we've been through lately, it just seems…unfair.

But it doesn't change the fact that I desperately want him to stay; that I can't spend another day in bed alone, with no one to speak to all day but my mother, and nothing to think about but all the danger we're in.

Luckily, Peeta seems to be thinking the same thing – and he'snot too chicken to say it. "D'you…I mean, I could keep you company today. If you want?"

I give him a small smile. "That would be nice."

Peeta heads home, promising to return with his sketchbook and colored inks. I occupy myself with my knitting again, cursing under my breath each time I drop a stitch or poke myself with the needles.

It's going to be a scarf, this thing I'm knitting, mostly because I don't know how to make anything else. And even though I'm using only the most basic stitch, I'm oddly proud of the little half-inch of progress I've already made. I study it carefully, stretching it out with my fingers, baffled by the idea that these intricate loops are really just a single, continuous thread of yarn, knotted around itself over and over again.

I hear Peeta's heavy footsteps after a little less than an hour. He knocks before entering, flashing me a warm smile as he sets the bag in his hand on top of my desk, which sits a few feet away from the bed. "You know how to knit?" he asks, gesturing to the heap of needles and yarn in my lap.

"Kind of. My mom tried to teach me." I set the scarf aside and boost myself up, propping my pillows against the headboard, only wincing a little as my tailbone aches in protest. "What did you bring?"

"Not much," Peeta replies, turning his attention to the bag on the desk. He pulls out a notebook, then a little set of brushes and a pot of ink. He brushes his fingers against the notebook, thinking, then asks, "Do you want to see?"

"Sure," I tell him, though I'm wary of what lies between the covers. The paintings he'd shown me on the Victory Tour train were so visceral, so disturbing, and I don't want to see anything that reminds me of the games right now. Not when I have to face the long nights alone.

Peeta sits in the chair at my bedside, tilting the notebook for me to see, but the angle is awkward and uncomfortable. After a moment's hesitation I scoot over, making room on the mattress beside me. "This might…work better," I say quietly. Peeta just nods and joins me on the bed, careful to keep a few inches of space between us. I can't help but think of all the nights we'd spent entwined together, first in our cave, then on the train. A sudden ache seizes up in my chest before I can chase it away.

I'm relieved by what he shows me; these sketches are nothing like the paintings he'd created for the Victory Tour. They're birds, trees, flowers, people; some in bold black ink, others in soft, smudged graphite, a few bright with splashes of color. There's a watercolor sunset, orange and pink and purple, and a carefully rendered profile of his father, who must have sat in place while his son drew him.

Peeta flips quickly through a few of the pages, and I pretend not to notice that they're full of sketches of me. I'm not exactly sure why he's embarrassed – after all, he showed me dozens of pictures he painted of me on the train. But in an odd way, these drawings are more intimate than the ones that were showcased on the Capitol. Those paintings were about clearing his mind, chasing away something he didn't want there. These drawings seem more like things he's trying to hang onto.

"These are lovely, Peeta," I tell him honestly.

"Thanks." He flips to a fresh page and stands up from the bed. "I'm not really –"

"Oh." I interrupt him suddenly, an idea hitting me. "I just thought – you like drawing plants, and things?" Peeta nods.

I explain my family's plant book: an old, yellowing tome of parchment and ink, started by an herbalist on my mother's side of the family, continued by my father. And now – if he's willing – completed by Peeta and me. For years I've wanted to capture my own knowledge of the woods in its pages, but I'm a terrible artist. With Peeta's help, I could write it all down and include detailed, accurate drawings for reference.

"I would love to help," Peeta says, and we share tentative smiles.

Peeta glances at me then from the corner of his eye, his lips edging up into the barest hint of a smile. I force my eyes away, trying to focus on the yarn and needles in my lap, but it's a losing battle.

His eyes dart towards me again and before I can stop myself I blurt, "What?"

"What?" he repeats innocently, but that little smile won't go away. In fact, it's growing bigger.

It's been three days since we started working on the plant book together. Our progress isn't moving quite as quickly as I'd imagined. Peeta's talented, for certain, but it's hard to explain to him in words how some leaves have a particular sheen to them, a way of reflecting the light, while others curve in a slightly different direction at the tip, or cluster in a specific pattern along the vine. We learn quickly to do the first several drafts on Peeta's scrap paper, not touching pen to the aging parchment of the book until I'm positive he's got it right.

"You keep looking at me," I snap, frowning down at my knitting needles. There's an odd gap in the row I just knit; I must have dropped a stitch somewhere.

"Well, you're staring at me," he says, his eyes settling steady on mine. I feel a hot blush flooding my cheeks and I turn my head away, scowling. He's right. I'm just annoyed that he caught me.

"Am not," I mutter. Peeta chuckles lightly, watching as I pull the needle out from its loops and tug at the end of the yarn, unraveling the few stitches I'd already knit in this row. I'm too impatient to fix the mistake the way my mom showed me, so I try to start the row over by slipping the needle back through the previous row's loops.

"Why are you pulling that apart?" he asks. "What are you making, anyway?"

I'd be glad for the change of topic if the answer was any less embarrassing. I remain silent for a long moment, still pulling out the thread, weighing my words in my head.

"I'm – it's a scarf," I say finally. "And I dropped a stitch, so there would be a big hole in it if I kept going."

He nods. "Ah. Well, that's a pretty color. Orange will look nice on you."

"It's not…actually for me," I say slowly. I swallow, refusing to look at anything but the needle I'm carefully threading through the little loops that stick up from the scarf's edge. "I was going to make it for you. I mean, if you want it."

After a pause I risk a glance at him; he's staring back at me, his expression unreadable. "Really?"

"Yeah." I shrug, nonchalant. "Who else would be willing to walk around District 12 in a bright orange scarf?"

Peeta laughs, and I feel my own lips twisting up into a smile. I like Peeta's laugh – I've heard a lot more of it ever since we started spending these long, quiet days together. It's warm, and deep somehow, like it's coming from the very center of him.

Breathing in, I continue. "I thought…since you're helping fill out my book for me, I should make something for you, too. That you could keep."

His smile falls a little, but he nods. "You know…you don't have to give me something in return for this." He gestures to the brushes and paper on the table before him. "It's not work. I like it. I like spending time with you." He shifts his body away from me slightly, fingering the end of a pencil. "You don't owe me, is what I mean."

"I know that," I say quietly, though I can't deny that was at least a little bit why I decided to knit him a scarf in the first place. There's always going to be that voice in the back of my mind, whispering don't forget, nothing comes for free.

We're silent for a long moment, until Peeta turns back to the table, picking up his brush. "Well, thank you," he says.

I feel awkward working on the scarf in front of him now, and set it gently on the floor beside the bed. "You're welcome."

He eyes the pile of yarn on the ground skeptically. "What, you're not going to finish?"

"I'll finish," I say. "My wrist is sore."

One side of his mouth curves up slightly, into an almost-smile. "How am I supposed to keep my neck warm, then?"

For a moment, I don't answer. Is Peeta flirting with me? I feel the way I did back in the cave with him: tongue-tied, nervous, slightly out of breath.

"You have other scarves," I say finally. "You wore them for the Victory Tour."

"I don't want them," he says. "I want yours."

"It won't be as good," I tell him.

"No," he agrees. "It'll be better."

We're working together in silence two days later when Peeta drops his brush onto the desk and turns to me. "Aren't you tired of sitting up here?"

"Yes," I say, as though it's a very obvious answer. Which it is.

"Then let's get you out of here."

"I can't walk, Peeta," I remind him, wiggling the toes on my bad foot.

"I'll carry you." He pushes back his chair and stands expectantly at my bedside, waiting for my permission.

I nod slightly. "Okay." My muscles tense in anticipation, though I'm not sure why; I know Peeta is strong, and though I've put on a little weight since the Games, I still don't weigh much more than one of his sacks of flour.

Peeta scoops me up against his chest, one arm beneath my folded knees, the other around my back. I circle my arms around his neck for balance, trying to ignore how close my lips are to brushing against his cheekbone. His body is warm, and it's a better kind of heat than the heavy weight of my blankets upstairs.

Prim is at school, but my mother is seated in the kitchen downstairs with a young woman with long brown hair and a snub nose. My mother doesn't even look up from the bandage she's wrapping around her patient's hand, but the woman's eyes widen at the sight of Peeta and me together. I fight the urge to bury my face against his neck. I'm so tired of being looked at.

"Hi," Peeta says, friendly as ever. He crosses past them into the living room, depositing me gently onto the couch where I'm mostly – thankfully – hidden from view. "Sorry if we're interrupting. Katniss just needed a change of scenery."

"You're fine," Mom says. "We're just about done here." She uses a piece of tape to fasten the bandage, and pats the young woman's hand. "All set. Remember, you'll need to reapply that poultice for a few days, and wrap it with a clean bandage each time."

As they start to discuss payment, my attention shifts to Peeta, who's in the kitchen filling two glasses of water from the tap for us. When did he become so comfortable in my house? I realize then that I have no idea how long Peeta hangs around when he leaves my room to head home in the evening. For all I know, he could be eating dinner with my family while I'm picking at my food upstairs in bed.

It's unlikely, though. He probably just has a similar setup in his own house down the road. He lifts his head and smiles when he sees me watching from across the room, carrying the glasses into the sitting room and settling down on the cushion beside me.

"This is a little better, right?" he asks.

"Yes," I admit. "A lot better."

He looks pleased, and pauses to take a sip of water. "Do you want to do something? We could play a game?"

I settle back against the overstuffed throw pillows on my side of the sofa, and shrug. "Sure."

It becomes our routine. Peeta comes every day, bearing cheese buns, and we work on the book together until one or both of us tires of it. Then he carries me downstairs. I realize that maybe this is my chance to work out whether what Bonnie and Quill told me in the woods is real. No one understands why I insist on watching the news every afternoon, but Peeta switches on the television dutifully every time I ask him.

Eventually the wedding dresses arrive, and they sit untouched in boxes stacked in the corner. Peeta and I act like they're not there.

There are moments when I catch myself wondering if this is what life will be like, once we're married. Not the bed rest and broken feet, but the boredom. The useless, stifled feeling. As victors, we're forbidden from holding real jobs. Peeta could still bake, and paint, but without the woods to escape, what do I have?

One bright morning, the snow starts to melt, and Mom pokes and prods at my foot. When I don't yelp with pain, she proclaims me cured – almost. "Give it one more day," she says.

I finish Peeta's scarf before lunchtime.

He seems surprised to find me already downstairs when he walks through the front door that afternoon. "Wow, look at you," he says, setting a basket on the kitchen island. I pull away the cloth covering the top greedily – I'm still not sick of his cheese buns, even after weeks of subsisting on practically nothing but.

"My mom said I can try going outside tomorrow," I say through a mouthful of bread.

I don't miss the brief flash of disappointment that flits over his features, though he recovers quickly with a wide, genuine smile. "That's great."

I nod, swallowing thickly. "I, um – I have something to show you, upstairs," I say, feeling almost shy.

Before I can even slide off of my stool, I find myself in his arms, just like every other day for the past few weeks. I protest, but he shushes me. "One more time," he insists. I let him carry me.

Peeta sets me down on the edge of my bed. "Close your eyes for a second," I tell him.

He squeezes them shut, and grins. "Who told you I like surprises?"

"No one." It's not really a surprise, anyway; I'm not sure why we're both pretending like it is. I kneel down on the floor and pull the finished scarf out from where I'd hidden it beneath the bed. I push back up to my feet, and then, balancing lightly on my tiptoes, wind the scarf loosely around his neck. His smile grows wider.

When I'm finished I take a step back and evaluate my handiwork. Cinna had taught me all kinds of ways to tie a scarf during the Victory Tour, but this one is made of a heavier material than the flimsy, decorative ones he'd dressed me in. Peeta wouldn't bother with a fancy knot, anyway.

"Okay," I say. "Open them."

Peeta meets my eyes for a second before looking down to the top of his chest. "Katniss, this is beautiful," he says, his fingers brushing over the soft yarn.

I frown a little. "Well, wait til you see it off your neck. There are holes." For the most part, I'd gone back and fixed my errors as I noticed them while I was knitting, but some days I just didn't have the patience.

"It's perfect," he says, and then he's wrapped me tightly in a hug, pulling me in close to his chest. The soft fabric of the scarf feels nice against my cheek. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I say, but what I should really be saying is thank you, too. For keeping me company all these weeks. For helping me get through the arena, and the Victory Tour. For throwing me the bread. For everything.

I expect him to pull away then, but we stay entwined together, his chin resting atop my head. "This has been nice," he murmurs.

I know he doesn't just mean the scarf. He means all these days we've spent together, pretending we're normal, like there isn't a constant threat hanging over our heads. They were nice. But they're over. I can't sit around all day anymore, knitting and chatting and eating. There are things I have to do. Responsibilities I must fulfill.

I don't let him carry me back down the stairs, but he goes down first just in case I stumble, his heavy feet thudding even louder than my own. Peeta wears my scarf all day, even though we're indoors. Prim says he looks handsome, and when he smiles at me, I blush.

Peeta doesn't stay for dinner. "I'm supposed to eat at my brother's house," he says, apologetic when my mother offers him a bowl of stew. "See you tomorrow?" he asks, turning to me.

"Yeah," I say, but he doesn't miss my hesitation.

"Okay," he says. "Goodnight." He squeezes my hand before he slips out the front door.

I watch him through one of the windows in the kitchen. The sky is streaked with the soft, warm colors of sunset, even a few shades of orange that match the scarf. It's the last thing I see as he turns the corner and heads towards town.

I started this ages ago, but Catching Fire movie excitement inspired me to finally finish it. I'd say this is 90% compatible with canon...not completely, but also not far off enough that it's an AU.

I hope you enjoy it, and would love to know what you think!