Title: Reverie

Summary: "And if I wrote you, you would know me. And you would not write me again." Peeta paints and reflects during a blizzard. [One-shot]

Author's Notes: Yes, the title and summary are lame. That's why I really need to seek out a beta; this website's system just confuses me though, so bah humbug. I hope the story itself is a little better. Let's see, what's important but not so rambling that people close their browsers in disgust?

This is set the day after Gale's whipping in Catching Fire, during the blizzard. I think everything is canon-friendly, but feel free to disagree. I love constructive criticism and would be happy to respond to any questions you have, so give me a shout via review or PM. Even if you hate it and just want to rip in to me for massacring your favourite character. Rating is M purely to cover myself, but if you think I'm completely off-base and overly paranoid, feel free to pat me on the head and go "There, there, dear." And I won't beg for reviews, but I'm sure you know how great they make a writer feel, good or bad.

Source of inspiration is Dar William's beautiful song "If I Wrote You" and the title is a nod to that, because if I were to describe it in one word, reverie would be it. Look it up on YouTube if you're wondering what type of tone I was trying (and failing) to reach with this fic.

I'm looking for other HG fanfiction archives/forums/awards/challenges/whatever, so feel free to direct me to one you know of!

Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all associated characters belong to Suzanne Collins. I'm just playing with them.

Peeta Mellark opened the curtains in what had become his studio; the natural light in the room made it perfect for painting. The view of Katniss's house three doors down was simply coincidence. He couldn't see it at the moment anyway; the blizzard that had begun to blow the night before was still going.

He pulled out an easel, placing it so he could look out the window. The view was soothing to him, nearly pure white and pristine. A larger canvas, untainted.

Through the thick flurries he could barely make out the house next door. He glimpsed a hint of red and brown in one of the windows though; he knew it would be the bird who had taken up residence. It was a pretty little thing; some days Peeta would sit and watch the bird flit around the house or fly out of house in search of food. He kept meaning to ask Katniss what type it was.

-o-o-o-o-

"You're in love with her, boy?" Haymitch asked.

They were in sitting at a table on a train rapidly hurtling itself towards the Capitol. The rest of the travellers had retired for the night, leaving only the baker's son and his mentor.

"That obvious, huh?" replied Peeta, smiling ruefully.

"Only if you've got eyes," the older man replied curtly. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Get her home, if I can."

The mentor nodded. They lapsed in to silence, listening to the clacking of the train on the track.

After a few minutes, Peeta spoke again. "It's not just her though. I mean, it is. But it isn't. If... when she gets back, she can help the others."

"And you wouldn't, I suppose?" Haymitch said sarcastically.

"They'll accept it from her," observed Peeta. "Don't tell me they won't. But from a Townie it's all charity."

Haymitch gave him a surprised glance.

"You're smarter than you look," he told the boy.

"So you'll help me?"

Haymitch grunted and pushed himself away from the table. "Get to bed. Tomorrow is going to be a long day."

-o-o-o-o-

Painting was an escape, one he retreated to most days. For a few hours he would slip to another world, one of colours and shapes and little else. When he was creating there were no Peacekeepers. The sounds of a whip on flesh, of someone being torn to pieces, of screaming agony, did not intrude. The smell of blood mingled with dirt and water, the scent that still made reminded Peeta of his imminent death, retreated. The twin stings of rejection and deception, all the more bitter for their smallness, faded. It was a comforting solitude.

For a few hours, Peeta forgot.

He began to paint. Large brush strokes of silver, varied slightly to create texture, made up the background. It was a scene from his dream the night before. As he worked, he let him mind drift to the subject of dreams; so much of his life since the Games had been caught up in them.

-o-o-o-o-

The nightmares were a given. The first time he heard Katniss crying out, he understood. Their shared experience made sure of that. So he slipped into her room night after night, falling asleep wrapped around her.

It wasn't what the gossip suggested. Somehow it had never crossed his mind; her sleeping car was like an alternate reality, and asking for anything but the other's presence would break some unwritten rule.

"Are they always bad?" she asked him one night when they both found themselves awake.

It was raining, the drops pinging against the metallic roof in a steady rhythm. They were somewhere between Districts 4 and 3. She was still trembling from the nightmare that had chased her from sleep, and he held her a little tighter. His own dream had been no better, and he couldn't risk having her disappear like a wisp of smoke.

He thought back on some of his dreams- and amidst the chaos and fear he found the good. A smile, a touch, a memory...

"No, Katniss. They aren't always bad."

-o-o-o-o-

The smell of the oils hung heavy on the air as he worked. The colours blended through the skilled movements of his hand, and the picture began to emerge. Her eyes were nearly the same colour as the background. The simple braid she had worn to the Capitol the first year kept her dark hair out of her face, but a small tendril had come out and curled at her temple.

Dip, stroke, rinse.

Dip, blend, stroke, stroke, rinse.

Dip, stroke, dip.

The dress he painted her in was a pale cream colour, unadorned except for some hinted-at embroidery on the bodice. The Capitol would never allow her to wear something so plain, especially for her wedding, but it was Peeta's dream he was painting.

Stroke by stroke, the picture grew.

-o-o-o-o-

"You should propose. During the interview."

Peeta nearly spit out the water he had just sipped. Katniss seemed oblivious.

"If that's what you want," he said, watching her.

She gave a little shrug, and it said more than words ever could. It wasn't what she wanted, not really. But the only other option was the truth, and that wasn't a possibility. So he agreed.

He spent hours working out his proposal. He used only a single rule as his guide, the same rule that had directed his every action to that point: he would not say or do anything he would look back on and say was for the benefit of the audience. False words would have been easy to write; ones that were truthful to both the private and the public lives were harder. He knew the recipe- a lot of sentiment, a dash of humour, and things that would make the ladies at home swoon and the men laugh and look at their own loves appreciatively for just a moment.

And the moment came that night, centre stage and in the spotlight.

"And what about the future?" Caesar Flickerman asked.

He nearly lost his nerve. The twitch in Katniss's cheek, the one he knew meant she was as nervous as he was, grounded him. He stumbled at the wrong part, but the screens indicated the audience was lapping it up. Peeta almost let himself believe in the cheers, that the ecstatic "YES!" was more than a facade constructed to keep others alive.

When President Snow climbed on to the stage, Peeta was surprised to realise that he would kill the man given a chance. With his bare hands if necessary.

When the bastard reached for Katniss, he nearly did.

-o-o-o-o-

The phone rang, echoing in the nearly empty house. Peeta set aside his palette and washed the brush so the bristles would not stiffen with dried paint.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I just wanted to make sure you got home."

Through the receiver, Katniss's voice sounded oddly hesitant and child-like. Peeta smiled.

"Katniss, I live three houses away from you. "

"I know, but with the weather and all..."

He considered teasing her, just a little, but the memory of her eyes as she sat beside her wounded "cousin" the night before stopped him.

"Well I'm fine. Thanks for checking," he paused, trying to determine the safest way to ask about her situation. He finally went with a simple "How's Gale?"

"All right. My mother and Prim are giving him a snow coat now."

"And your face?"

He remembered the angry red gash across her cheek. The way she had sagged against him- just a little bit, barely perceptible really- when he stood beside her and spoke so calmly to the new Peacekeeper. Inside he was seething.

"I've got some too. Have you see Haymitch today?"

"I checked in on him. Dead drunk. But I built up his fire and left him some bread," Peeta said.

"I wanted to talk to you- to both of you."

He knew pressing her for more details would be useless. The Capitol almost certainly had their phones tapped.

"Probably have to wait until after the weather calms down. Nothing much will happen before that, anyway," he replied, keeping his voice as neutral as he could.

"Yeah."

Peeta wasn't sure what to say next, and Katniss didn't seem to know either. When the silence between them seemed stretched to the breaking point, he put on his best cheerful voice. Who knew who was listening?

"I'll make sure to bake some cheese buns before I see you again."

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't what he wanted to say either. He was getting good at biting his tongue.

-o-o-o-o-

"You're good for her. You keep her grounded," Haymitch told him one day, not long after their return from the Victory Turn.

Peeta had never understood his mentor the way Katniss did, but he understood that. Katniss was... well, Katniss. Impulsive and hot-headed and trying so hard to do the right thing and being paralysed by indecision. He loved her for it- it saved his life, after all. But in their situation, it could be deadly.

He wanted to rage at the Capitol. He hated them. All of them. And it was getting harder to hide his fury behind a friendly demeanour. The final straw, the drinks at the feast, had been a feather on top of a mountain of hatred. And it had been enough to start an avalanche.

Haymitch knew. His comments were a warning to play it safe, to be the same reliably good boy that had won over Panem months before. Peeta wasn't that boy any longer, but he had to play the part. Everything he held dear depended on it.

He considered rebellion. He contemplated the possibilities- they were not desirable ones, but he gave them serious thought. Fighting. Words that would cost people lives in an effort to save them. Anger and rage and disgust. The power to do good. They were all there at his fingertips, waiting to be put in to action. But at the end of the day, he was Peeta Mellark and he was as steady as a rock. Because it was needed.

-o-o-o-o-

Peeta picked up his paintbrush again, casting a critical eye over his canvas. It was good, almost as if she had stepped out of his dream from the night before. To the left was a tree, leafless branches twisting outwards from a gnarled truck. Dead centre stood Katniss, a defiant glint to her eyes. Peeta was glad he had captured it.

There was only one small detail missing. He thought of omitting it, but he knew he couldn't. He looked towards the furthest corner in the studio, where this painting would sit with the others once it had dried. Peeta had painted them, each one a picture of a Katniss visiting his sleep. Nobody saw them, especially not her. He wanted to destroy them- he had gone so far as to pile them in his fireplace, but found he could not light the match.

His nightmares.

He dipped his brush a finally time, and painted the rope around her neck.

...