Who can resist hijacked!Peeta smut, right? We certainly can't. So we wrote some.

Thank you to Chelzie for betaing!

Trigger warnings: Violence. Dubious consent.

If We Met at Midnight

The sound of the ventilation system is strangely soothing. It's warm in here and the lighting is dim, flickering slightly. No one knows where I am. I could stay here forever, and no one would ever find me.

Here, in this place, I am no one. I'm not a victor. I'm not a sister, daughter, or friend. I'm certainly not their precious Mockingjay. I don't even have to be Katniss if I don't want to. It's as if I don't exist.

I hug my knees, rocking slightly back and forth. I couldn't sleep. That's why I'm here. Johanna was having nightmares. I tried to wake her, but they gave her a sedative. She was stuck in between, screaming and thrashing even when I tried to shake her awake. I couldn't listen to her suffer anymore.

I've lost track of time, but I know it's late.

I blink slowly. I breathe deeply. Somehow I must fall asleep, because my head drops. For a moment, I'm calm.

The hum of the ventilation is interrupted by the sound of heavy steps against the concrete floor. I jerk my head up in alarm. The movement is so sudden that it hurts my neck. The pain reminds me that I'm not in the arena fighting for my life anymore. I almost wish that I were still in there.

They took the brace off of me days ago. I thought I had fully healed after what happened, but clearly I haven't yet. The cause of this pain is too painful to even think about. But still, it's impossible to think of anything else.

I listen to the footsteps more closely. They must belong to a man. A woman's steps wouldn't be so heavy. I know that whoever is down here now, most likely a tech working the night shift, can't hear me over the sounds of the ventilation system. He can't see me where I sit, hidden in a nook created by metal tubing. I hold my breath, and don't move a muscle. The steps come closer. With each one, I expect him to go off in another direction, but he doesn't. Instead, he comes closer. He's going to walk right past me. If I sit very still, he won't see me.

It happens quickly. It's a blur of blond hair, bruised skin, and bared teeth. I don't have time to react. He drags me to my feet, and slams my back against the concrete wall.

"Mutt." His voice hisses. "I knew I'd find you here."

I was right. It was a man. I just didn't think it would be this man.

Or maybe I did. The rumor is that he's behaved very well lately. They've relaxed security around him. They don't think he'd be a danger to anyone anymore.

I guess they were wrong.

Peeta has been starved and tortured. He's a shadow of the all-muscle wrestler he was before, but he's still stronger than me. He has clasped my hands with one of his and keeps them captive above my head. His knee is between my legs and his body is trapping me against the wall. He hasn't covered my mouth. I could scream, but there's no point. We both know no one would hear me.

"How - how did you know where I was?"

He looks confused for a split second. He furrows his brow and brings his free hand up to rub his scruff, as if there's something he needs to remember. "I don't know."

"You're supposed to be in your room," I say, my voice shaking. I try, but I can't move. His face is close to mine. Too close.

The man in front of me is nothing like the Peeta who used to sleep in my bed on the train. He was close then, too. Sometimes too close when we woke up in the morning. But back then, his eyes were warm and sleepy. Now they are full of hatred, ice cold, and almost rabid. But... they are the same blue color.

"So are you. Why aren't you, mutt?"

"I couldn't sleep."

He narrows his eyes at me. "Nightmares?"

I nod my head as I look away.

"They're nothing compared to the things I see."

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He chuckles bitterly. I've apologized before. "You're sorry you got me hijacked?"

My eyes dart back to his. So he can actually talk about it now. Use the word. Nine letters that can never convey the true horror of the damage that has been done to him. But even as he says the word, his hand moves from his chin to my neck. His fingers close around my throat.

"I didn't," I say too quickly. In a moment of panic, I remember what it was like before. The last time he touched me like this. The last time I thought I was going to die. My body struggled desperately for air, and I thought it was the end. In that moment, I wanted to live. I wanted it so desperately.

Now, though? I'm not so sure.

"Yes. You did." I don't argue. I don't look away. I hold his gaze until a strange look of intrigue crosses over his features. "Do you want to know what I dream about?"

I don't. Not really. Dealing with my own non-hijacked nightmares is bad enough. But I notice his grip has loosened. He doesn't want to kill me. Not now, anyway. What he wants, maybe needs, is to talk.

"Yes."

His features soften and relief courses through me. Perhaps I want to live after all? The only times I realize that I do is when my life is in actual danger. When everything is crystal clear. The rest of the time, though, it's all a blur.

"Can't you guess?" His hand drifts down to my collar and he undoes the first two buttons. His fingertips drag teasingly across my collarbone, setting my skin on fire.

I actually can guess, but I still shake my head.

"How long has it been since we've done this?"

"Done what?"

He removes his knee from between my legs, but swiftly presses his body against mine again before I have the chance to move. But this time it's not the outside of his hip and the side of his body that I feel. He's shifted so that the entire front of his body is pressed against mine. I gasp as I feel his hardness against me, and I know. That's why he shifted. This is what he wants me to feel. He leans in, whispering in my ear. "How long has it been since we've fucked?"

He nips at the skin just below my ear, causing me to hiss. But I still somehow manage to shake my head. "We've never-" My breath catches as his tongue flickers out, touching my skin. He bucks his hips against me. "Ohh..." I whimper. He smiles against me at the sound he caused. I blink my eyes, trying to clear my head. "We've never done that," I manage to say, my voice hoarse.

He chuckles again. "What did we do then, huh? Have sex? Climb the slag heap? Make love?" His voice is dripping with sarcasm.

His lips are on my skin again. He presses hard kisses down my neck.

"Nothing."

His movements stop.

"Nothing?" He sneers. "So we didn't sleep in the same bed during the Victory tour? Or at the training center?" He cocks his head, and there's something in his voice. Something different. I can't put my finger on it. He is pressing me against the wall, and his body is so warm, and he's grinding his erection against my belly with a smirk on his lips. He could do anything he wanted to me right now, and no one could stop him. So why does my body throb for him? Why do I squirm against him, searching for friction, even though I hate what he's become?

"We did," I tell him. Maybe lying, saying that none of it was real, would've been safer. Telling him that we were sharing a bed willingly could give him the wrong idea. "But only to sleep. To help each other with our nightmares."

He laughs, a cruel laughter that I've never heard from him before. "You actually expect me to believe that two 16-year-olds would share a bed together, night after night, without fucking?" His fingers close around my throat again. "No, that's not what I remember."

"I'm telling you the truth."

"You're lying through your teeth. You know how I can tell?"

"No."

He inhales slowly. "I can smell you." My eyes narrow as I look at him in disgust. But mostly I'm disgusted with myself, because I know how wet I am for him. I don't answer. I just stare at him, and he smirks. "You know what I think, mutt?" I shake my head. "I think you're nothing more than a slag heap whore who would fuck anyone, including your pathetic 'fiancé' Peeta Mellark and your 'cousin' Gale Hawthorne." He grins. "By the way, did you know he came to see me?"

"No." He lifts me up so that my feet are no longer on the ground, and I'm unable to stop him. When I feel his erection between my legs, only separated from my core by a few thin layers of clothing, I realize it must be to align our bodies. He thrusts against me, slowly, rhythmically, and for every thrust he makes, his cock slides against my clit. I bite my lip, willing myself not to moan. I won't give him the satisfaction. "Gale saved you. He volunteered to get you back from the Capitol."

"It would've been better if I had died in that cell." He goes still, just for a few seconds. He looks almost startled. His eyes are clear, and it seems like the real Peeta is showing through. But he's gone as quickly as he appeared, replaced by the Capitol creation. His eyes darken. "I told him about the filthy, filthy things I did to you. You begged me to fuck you, and I did everything you wanted. You could never get enough. I fucked you so hard and creamed your pussy so good, and when I think about all the things you said to me… Wow." He shakes his head and laughs to himself. "But of course Gale already knows what you're like, since you've fucked him too."

"No, he doesn't."

"Don't lie to me," he snaps. His hand closes around my throat again, and this time, I lose my breath for a few seconds before he releases his grip slightly so that I can breathe again. "If you lie to me, I'll have to hurt you," he says simply. "Do you understand?"

"Yes." My voice is raspy, I heave for breath.

"Gale lied to me. So I had to jam the needle from my IV into the back of his hand."

I widen my eyes. Gale's hand was bandaged at dinner a few days ago, but he said it was a training accident. "Why did you-"

"Because he lied. I know he fucked you. I saw you with him."

I narrow my eyes. "What?"

"You don't think I saw you, blowing him on the kitchen table in your house?"

I search my memory. Kitchen table? When has Gale even been in my kitchen? "The morning after he got whipped?" Peeta doesn't answer. "Damn it, Peeta, does that even make sense to you? Gale was barely conscious! They've tampered with your memories. That didn't happen."

Peeta rolls his eyes and his grip tightens. "I told you not to lie to me. You're not going to do it again, are you?" My body struggles for air. I shake my head. "Good." He loosens his grip and I gasp for air.

"Now tell me, who did you like fucking more? Me or Gale?" I don't want to answer. What the fuck kind of question is that anyway? But then his grip begins to tighten again and I croak out a response. "Neither."

"Neither?"

I shake my head furiously. "Neither of you." His hardness is still pressed against me. I know he's turned on. "I prefer to touch myself," I say to spite him. Or encourage him. Maybe both.

Peeta grins. The low, flickering light in here casts shadows over his face, twists it. "You touch yourself?"

"Yeah..." I look at the expression on his face. He's practically drooling over my words. "I use my fingers to make myself feel good." His hand releases my wrist, and both hands slide down. They move to my hips, and I twist my body slightly to the side. He doesn't react. He's looking at me with a dazed expression on his face.

I move quickly, twisting out of his grasp. I catch him off guard, and he puts all his weight on his prosthetic, loses his balance and falls against the wall. I take two steps backwards. This could be my chance to run. He's weakened after weeks of torture in the Capitol, so I just might make it. But I don't even try. "Your memories aren't real, Peeta. I'm a virgin! And so are you."

He smirks at me, surprisingly not upset that I've escaped from his hold. "I'm not a virgin, Katniss," he laughs.

"You were last time I saw you."

He rolls his eyes. "So the night before the Quarter Quell didn't happen?"

I clamp my mouth shut. We did explore each other's bodies that night, but my innocence remained intact. We both kept a thin layer of clothing on, and when I tried to push his boxer briefs down, he stopped me.

"It's not right, Katniss," he said. "Not like this."

How I wish now that we hadn't stopped that night.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he says. This new Peeta, who's not really Peeta. He's nothing like the boy who, after making me squirm and moan as he touched me over my panties, stopped us from going further because it wasn't right. Even though we both knew we'd never get another chance, because one or both of us was going to die in the arena.

"We didn't have sex," I insist.

He reaches for me, moving faster than I've ever seen him. He catches the shoulder of my jumpsuit in his right hand and swings me around, slamming my back against the wall again. "Liar!" he growls.

I grimace in pain and surprise as he sinks his teeth into my neck, but I hold back a scream. It hurts, and it's going to be bruised in the morning. If I live long enough to see it. "You fucked me, and Gale, and Finnick, and who knows who else," he accuses. His tongue sweeps once over the skin he just bit.

"No. It's not true."

"I can prove it," he insists.

His hands are gone, but before I can breathe a sigh of relief, I feel them against my stomach. He rips open my jumpsuit, pulling off a few buttons and sending them flying down the hallway. I gasp in shock, but I don't move. I'm frozen in place. I barely breathe, even as his fingers slide down my stomach... and keep going.

I'm not wearing a bra, but he wouldn't notice if I were anyway. His eyes are glued to mine as his fingertips tuck into my underwear.

"Spread your legs, mutt."

With his words, I find myself able to move. But not to obey. I grab onto his wrist and tug, trying to pull his hand away. This isn't right. Peeta would never touch me like this. "No."

His nostrils flare at my words, at my steady defiance, and for a second, I'm afraid that he's going to try to strangle me again. The heel of his hand presses hard against my mound, and I cease my struggle. "Do you have something to hide from me?" he asks.

"No. Not hide."

"What then?"

"Save," I explain. "I'm saving this for you. For us. Don't do this, Peeta," I plead. "Not like this. It's not right."

He gives no indication that he remembers they were his own words to me once. This is crazy. I hate the way he's talking to me, looking at me. But also... he's close to finding out just how wet he's made me.

We're both hurting so bad, just in different ways.

Confusion is etched across his face as his eyes drift down. Then they stop and widen. He pulls his hand out of my underwear and he pulls apart my jumpsuit, baring my naked chest to him.

"What happened to your tattoo?" he asks.

"I've never had a tattoo," I tell him.

I feel cold and exposed as he studies my body, an almost comical expression on his face. And it occurs to me... He's never seen my chest bare before.

"Yes, you did. It was right here." He taps on my left breast, just above my heart. He seems so sure. So certain.

"What was it? The tattoo."

He blinks and shakes his head in a way that lets me know he's fighting against the false memories. The memories they used to turn him against me. "It was a mockingjay." His fingers trace a pattern over my skin, again and again. I realize he's trailing the contours of a bird.

"Do you see it now?"

He looks up to meet my eyes. "No."

"Does it look like there's ever been a tattoo there? Like my skin has been tampered with?"

"No," he admits. "But they can do that in the Capitol. Remove any scar, any imperfection."

I know that he's right. "They didn't do that," I tell him. "My body hasn't been polished since after the first Games." I know what he sees. Scars from the second arena. Smallish and slightly uneven breasts. After my first Hunger Games, they removed all my scars, but thankfully, Cinna and Haymitch didn't allow them to do any other alterations on me. Even this Peeta knows that the body he's currently looking at isn't a Capitol body.

I need him to believe me. If he knows that the memories of us being intimate aren't real, maybe he'll start to question all the other memories that were tampered with as well. Peeta is right. He can prove it. Or rather, I can.

"It wasn't real," I tell him. He's still staring at my chest, but my shyness ebbs away. "They implanted false memories in your brain." He doesn't answer. "This isn't the body you remember, is it?" I ask him, my voice growing louder and more insistent.

He still doesn't answer. But his eyes dart back up to mine, and for a moment, he's there. My Peeta, innocent and broken.

"What did I look like in your memories, Peeta?"

"Perfect," he whispers.

I don't think. I just act. I reach for his hand and encourage him to hold my breast. To feel the weight and shape of me. I'm not perfect, but my Peeta wouldn't mind that. He looks away, like he did last time, even though I was wearing a bra then. "This is real," I tell him.

I nod in encouragement as his fingers flex ever so slightly, palming me hesitatingly. Even though I am the one who put his hand on me, feeling his fingers and palm against my breast is still a shock. I feel a surge of something go through my body. He stares at his hand as it touches me, as if hypnotized. He drags his palm against my nipple, causing a shudder to go through me, then closes his hand harder around my breast. He's not gentle, exactly, but he's not hurting me.

I reach for his other hand and bring it to my mouth. I suck on his two fingers, coating them generously with my spit. "Touch me. Then you'll know." He furrows his brow as I hold his wrist in one hand and guide him back down. It should be embarrassing to do this, but something about the way he's looking at me now... I really do think this is Peeta.

"Didn't you just say you were saving yourself?" I don't hear any sarcasm or hatred in his voice. I'm not sure what I hear.

I nod my head. "For you." I widen my knees.

His fingers press into me and even though I'm wet, it's uncomfortable. I force myself to keep my eyes open, to watch him make sense of this.

"What's this supposed to prove?" He curls his fingers inside of me, and I know as soon as my moan escapes my mouth that I've lost the high ground. Shit. "That you want me to fuck you? That your pussy is practically begging for it?" His words get more venomous with every syllable. "You like that, mutt?"

"Katniss," I tell him. "My name is Katniss."

He doesn't react as strongly to me defying him anymore. No fingers around my throat. But he does repeat his question. "You like that?" He still doesn't say my name, but at least he doesn't call me 'mutt' this time.

I can't lie, not when my body is betraying me by producing another wet gush between my legs, and a strangled moan escapes my throat. "Yes." Tears well up in my eyes as I realize what a mistake I've made. "Peeta," I say desperately, and his movements stop suddenly. I can feel my body clench around him, a physical response to the intrusion of his fingers inside of me, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Say it again."

"What-"

"My name. Say it again."

"Peeta?"

"No." He shakes his head. "Not like that." His fingers dip into me again and his thumb catches the hood of my clit. I bite my bottom lip to stifle a moan. "Now. Say it now."

"Peeta," I oblige and I sigh.

He pulls his fingers out of me and lifts them, observing my wetness and rubbing it in between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. "Not shiny," he says so quietly, I almost don't hear it.

He leans in and presses his lips against mine, catching me off guard. We have kissed many times before. There have been short kisses, long kisses. Soft, intense, deep, innocent, wet, passionate, and sweet. Most of them haven't been real. Only one of them truly woke a fire in me - the kiss we shared on the beach. And now this one, even though the boy from the beach is gone. My tongue moves with his, and I fight for dominance with this damaged, scarred, tortured man who has already tried to kill me once, and may very well finish the job tonight.

He makes a strange sound into my mouth, and I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer. He lifts me up again, using his weight to pin me against the wall, but this time, I wrap my legs around him. He sucks hard on my bottom lip, and I don't try to stop a moan. He's earned it.

I tilt my hips against his, and tear my mouth away from his lips. We're both panting. He's staring at me with a look in his eyes that I've never seen before. I don't know what it is. I don't know if it's good or bad.

My jumpsuit is already open, my underwear soaked. Through his jumpsuit, I can feel his cock hard and aligned perfectly to press into me. But he doesn't shed his clothes and take me. Instead, he steps back. I'm sure there are bruises on my back, but I don't care. My arms are still around his neck, but I slip down towards the floor, sighing in relief when my toes reach the concrete. His cock is pulsing against my belly now. I look down, and for the first time I can see it, the prominent bulge between his legs.

I don't know how it happens, but suddenly, I'm working almost desperately on trying to undo his jumpsuit with trembling hands. He helps me, and at the same time, he's tearing at my clothes, too. My eyes fill with tears as I look at his naked, battered upper body. What did they do to him? His skin is covered in yellowing bruises.

His hand finds my chin and forces me to look up at him, his grip almost too tight. "It's nothing," he whispers. I quickly blink my tears away. "It's nothing."

I won't argue. We're walking a thin line here, between survival and disaster. I see in his eyes that he could still do it. He could kill me. I don't know what holds him back, why he hasn't already. Whether it's the treatment that he's gotten that is starting to work, if there is something of the old Peeta left in him, or if he simply plans to do it after.

He kisses me again, and his hands explore my body. My back is pressed against the wall again, but we are sliding down. Soon we're on the floor, a tangled mess of groping hands and open mouths. Then his fingers find their way back between my legs. My jumpsuit gone, he finds my panties and grunts, impatiently tearing them off. The fabric rips, and he throws the scraps away. Then his hands are back between my legs again. He slips two fingers inside me, and it doesn't feel quite as uncomfortable this time. He rubs my clit, a bit too hard, still keeping his fingers inside me. I gently try to direct his movements, to do something that works – tight circles, just the right pressure. Soon I feel something approaching, something building deep in my belly. Something I can't ignore. I've felt it before, on my own, but it's never been like this.

"Peeta," I moan, bucking against him. I feel my muscles contracting around him as I get closer to the brink. I'm fighting it, fighting that tightening in my belly, because it scares me, all of this scares me. Climaxing could make me all too vulnerable. But he does that thing again with his fingers; by now he's figured out exactly how I like it the most, and I surrender. I bite his shoulder as I come, trying to muffle my cry. I spasm around him, and it feels so different to finish with something inside of me.

When I can breathe again, it takes me some time, perhaps a minute, to work up the courage to open my eyes. When I do, I'm met with his blue eyes, impossible to read, so close to mine. He's hovering above me. My thighs are spread, and he's lying between them, keeping his body weight off me with his arms. They are trembling.

Then I feel it. His cock, sliding between my folds. I look down between us. I've felt him before, but only through his clothes. I've never actually seen him. I have no idea how he is supposed to fit, he looks too big, but he knows where he's going now, and there's no stopping him. No stopping us. He uses his hand to guide himself and he finds my opening with little more than a tilt of my hips. I can't keep myself from tensing up. His cock is so much thicker and longer than his finger. He slips the tip in, circling his hips once. I will my body to relax.

Breathe. Accept him.

He presses slowly into me. My body stretches to welcome him, and I envelop him in my warmth. I'm wet and I want this. Don't I? I doubt I have the chance to answer my own question. Suddenly he snaps his hips, and thrusts hard, sheathing himself inside me completely. My fingernails scratch desperately against the skin of his back, and I scream in pain and surprise.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry. I force myself to take control of my breathing. Slow. Inhale. Exhale. Peeta keeps still as well, I think he is allowing me some time to adjust. My body wants to fight him, but at the same time, it doesn't want him to leave. This is what I've been craving.

"Katniss?" I abruptly open my eyes at the sound of his voice. He says my name. And his voice is different. It's not the voice of my old Peeta, but it's not the voice of tortured, hijacked Peeta, either. He looks at me, his mouth open. A drop of sweat is rolling down his forehead, and his entire body is shaking. His face twitches, twice, and I wonder if he realizes yet that he's just lost his innocence, too.

It must be terribly confusing for him. A fight between real and not real.

"Peeta," I exhale. I realize my fingers are still digging into the skin of his back, and I relax them. He takes a deep breath and then he moves. His rhythm is halting and a bit unsure at first. He mutters something under his breath, tilts my hips to get a better angle. I moan loudly as he penetrates me even deeper. It feels raw, not exactly painful, but not good yet, either. But that soon changes. His movements become more controlled, and I feel my body starting to respond. I lift my hips to meet his thrusts with one of my own, making him slide even deeper. The first time I do it, I'm rewarded with a moan from him, and a tingling feeling along my spine. So I do it again and again, and his mouth finds mine in a crushing kiss as he works towards his release. I know I won't come. It's too new, too soon, too different. But it's okay. His thrusts become erratic, and he tears his mouth away from mine, groaning against my neck as he cums. I feel the tip of him throb deep inside of me, and the rush of something warm as he empties himself.

He sinks down on top of me, heaving for breath. When he rolls off me, something I've never smelled before penetrates the air. It's a heavy, unfamiliar scent, but I recognize it right away as the scent of our sex. But it's mingled with something else, a somewhat metallic smell that I do know well.

I cover my eyes with my elbow. I wonder if I've made a massive mistake. I really was saving this for us. It shouldn't have been like this. We should've done this the night before the Quell instead. I should have shared this with sweet Peeta, my Peeta. Not this wreck, destroyed by the Capitol, who hates me, and is just waiting for an opportunity to kill me. The Capitol's secret weapon to take down the Mockingjay.

But he's had his chance, and he didn't take it.

I sit up, and I wince. I'm sore. I look down between my thighs, and see the mess. Him and me. I swipe my hand over it, catching some of it with my fingertips, and turn to look at him. He's lying on his back, still panting heavily, staring up at the ceiling.

"Look," I say, showing him my fingers.

The light is low, making the blood look dark, almost black. But it's still clear what it is. My blood, mixed with our cum.

"What?" He blinks at me, not understanding.

"Your memories aren't real," I explain to him. "Think about all the things you said to me. About what you remember doing to me." I force him to look at my hand, only inches from his face. "Would we look like this if you had fucked me before? If anyone had?"

He stares at me, his eyes wide open. He quickly moves to sit between my legs, forcing them open, seeing the mess for himself. He touches the blood on the inside of my thigh, with just one finger. Then he brings the finger up to his lips to taste it, as if to make sure it's real.

There's nothing more to say. His shoulders sink. He stares at me, helplessly. For the first time, I feel confident that he won't kill me. At least not now.

I don't know how long we sit like this. But we can't stay. They'll come looking for him soon, and I don't want to give up this hiding place. Although, Peeta found me here. How did he know I'd be here?

It doesn't matter.

One of the jumpsuits has a bloody stain on it, near the crotch. I smirk when I see that it's his. How fitting. "Get dressed." I throw the garment at him.

I quickly get dressed myself. I'm sore, my panties are ruined, and my jumpsuit is immediately soaked in cum and blood. It's cold and uncomfortable, and I know I really need a shower before I make a mess of my sheets too. I hope Johanna won't notice.

I turn around to find that Peeta has gotten dressed, too. His fists are opening and closing. Opening and closing. I look down at the stain, and he does, too.

"Hang on to that," I tell him. "You can look at it every time you don't think it was real." I know he can't, at least not for long. They'll notice if a piece of clothing goes missing. We're only issued three. One to wear, one to wash, one extra. I wonder how I'll be able to explain the missing pair of panties.

"We shouldn't leave together," he says. It's about the most normal thing I've heard him to me say all night. A coherent sentence that is not about hurting me. There's still an edge to his voice, though. Our struggle is far from over.

"I'll go first. Wait a few minutes before you follow me."

I start to walk down the corridor, but after a few yards I stop and turn to face him. "I think we could both go unnoticed, if we met midnight."

Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.