crack_van | "The Unrecorded Hours" by hollycomb (R)

Fandom: THE HUNGER GAMES
Pairing: Peeta/Katniss, Johanna/Gale
Length: ~24k words
Author on LJ: hollycomb
Author Website: Master Fic List

Why this must be read: The was one of the first Hunger Games fics I ever read, and it's certainly stuck with me the most. There's a whole sector of THG fic filling in the blanks between the end of the war and the Mockingjay epilogue, but "The Unrecorded Hours" is the best I've read. Told from Katniss's perspective, the whole thing is very natural and honest, but it doesn't lack for poetry. And I always love seeing our heroes find a bit of a happy ending in a way that just feels right and in keeping with the spirit of the books.

“You think I don't want you,” she says, sitting back, showing him the wreck of her pinched-up face. “They made you believe that. Or I did.”

He stares at her, lips parted, his hands cupped around her waist. She hides again, hugging herself to him, her face pressed to his shoulder. She'll regret that when she wakes fully. She's embarrassed him, telling him that she heard him before. His hands go to her back, his touch almost cautious now. He swallows again, and takes a deep breath, her body rising along with his chest, sinking back down when he exhales.

“Just – you're okay,” he says, petting her. She sniffles, knows she won't sleep again tonight. For awhile they just lie there, Peeta's back propped against the headboard, Katniss spilled out on top of him, her arms looped around his neck. He rubs his fingers across her back the way he did when she fell asleep, and what she meant as a sigh comes out as a tired moan. He shifts, clears his throat, and pulls the blankets up over her back.

“Don't stop,” she says, the words muffled against his shoulder.

“What?”

“The – what you were doing –”

He gets the message after a few seconds, his fingers sliding across her back again. She knows his promises don't mean anything, that a hovercraft could appear overhead at any moment, dragging him away, fire bombing the house – those who are in charge will always be able to do whatever they want, and no one will forget that she's here. They might not have a lot of time, every day together potentially their last. It will always be that night before their interviews, the one when she told him it could be their only chance. She sits up and pulls her undershirt over her head. He looks worried, and keeps his eyes fixed on hers for a few seconds, wets his lips. When he finally looks down at her naked chest it's just a quick, embarrassed glance.

“They wanted to surgically modify me,” she says flatly, remembering that this can only ever be about her body, so that her heart is only a victim when the dreams don't give her a choice.

“Surgically—?” he says, looking lost, his cheeks going red.

“These,” she says, taking her breasts in her hands. They're not as small as they were during her first Games, the improvements in her diet lending them some fat, but they barely fill her hands. “I always think of that when I see them, how Cinna saved them for me. I would have hated it if they had stuffed me full of plastic. What do you think? Aren't they better like this?” She circles her nipples with her index fingers and his mouth falls open, his hands moving up to her waist. He's staring for a moment, mesmerized, then his eyes sneak up to hers.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Talking too much,” she says, remembering her vow. She takes his hands and brings them up to her chest. They're warm, shaking, and they cover her breasts easily. When he starts to stammer and pull away she falls forward to kiss him hard, holding his hands against her.

“Stop,” he says, panting when he pulls back, his mouth wet.

“Why?” she asks, the fury that pours in making her hands close more tightly around his, which are trembling on her chest. “Don't you want to? Didn't you like it, before?” She's humiliated by the question, wants to take it back.

“Just a second ago you were screaming your head off,” he says, his eyes filling. “Yesterday you were cutting your wrists –”

“Oh, forget it!” She throws his hands away and climbs off of him, feeling like her ribs have been replaced with knives. She scoots away from him as much as possible, facing the wall, her knees pulled to her chest. Peeta is sniffling, and she wishes she was cruel enough to tell him that she doesn't want him, to get out. When he settles down onto the pillows again his back is curved against hers. He's taken his t-shirt off, for some reason.

“You don't have to pretend anymore,” he says. “I don't need it.”

The Unrecorded Hours