A/N: Hello, dear readers! Me again! This story is basically a set of drabbles centered around Katniss and Peeta having children. The different chapters don't necessarily connect to one another, but they are sort-of related. Well, I'll let you use your judgment. Nor is there necessarily a 'plot' other than Katniss and Peeta having children. Please enjoy and think about leaving a review at the end of the chapter! Enjoy!

My Little Mockingjay

It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not by much.

I would never have children. I swore against it. I would never go through the heartache of having to watch, helpless, as my children's names went in that glass ball to enter a fight to the death. I would keep them safe by never having them. Never even letting them enter this cold, cruel, screwed up world.

My resolution was only hardened when my own name was drawn. When I became a tribute, then a Victor, than a tribute again, and finally the face of the rebellion, the rallying cry, the mockingjay. No. I would never have children after that. I was too broken. I would be a terrible mother. And with Peeta unable to look at me without the Capitol-owned part of his brain telling him to kill me and Gale having pretty much killed my sister? Children were out of the question.

But one thing threw a wrench in my plans. I survived. And Peeta survived. And we grew back together. And we were no longer star-crossed lovers. We were . . . us. We are us. We went through hell and back together and nothing could change that. No one could understand me like he could, and no one could understand him like I could. We were bonded together for life, through experiences if not in words and official documents. For better or worse. And it couldn't get much worse than it already had. So things could only get better.

Agonizingly slow, yes, but better. It took us years to get to a point where we were, if not content, if not satisfied, at least somewhat happy. As in not totally depressed. At least Peeta's flashbacks were at a minimum and I only woke up screaming once a week. My bad days were limited to once a month. Things were getting better. So of course I started to fear they would become worse.

And they did. Or, at least, to me they did. It all started with a single sentence, five years after my return to District 12.

"Katniss, do you ever think about having children?"

Yes, that simple sentence that simultaneously fills me with dread and guilt, and marks the end of no expectations between us.

Because once again I feel like I've tricked Peeta. Have I ever thought about having children? Yes. Yes, in fact, I thought about it quite a lot, actually. But the thought was never in the sense that I might actually have children. It was more of in the sense that I feared having children. An accident is my biggest fear, surpassed only by the fear of losing Peeta. This is why I take every single precaution before I even think of entering the bedroom. It's expensive medicine, sure, but it's not like we don't have the money.

The truth is, is that I can't bear to have children. I can't stand the thought. If I'm so afraid for my children's lives before they were even born then the fear would only get much, much worse if we actually had children. And Peeta…yes…I know that he thinks about it. I can tell by the look in his eyes right now. I can tell by remembering the way he talked about our 'baby' during the Quarter Quell. I can tell because he would be such a wonderful father. And he's Peeta. Of course he wants kids.

And I have not and will never speak a word of them to him. Except to tell him 'no.'

God, I'm a bitch. And a selfish one, at that.

"I don't want to have children," I tell him. Seems I really am a selfish bitch.

"Oh," he says. To his credit, Peeta hides his disappointment well. But not well enough. I can tell by the way he turns his back to me. The way his shoulders slump and his head hangs. I bury my nose in the newspaper, not reading it. All I can think of is how horrible of a person I am. A terrible, terrible person. The guilt is so overwhelming I feel like crying. Tears prick my eyes and I'm grateful for my hiding place behind the District Twelve Crier. If he knew how horrible I felt for denying him children then…well, it wouldn't be good.

"Why not?" I hear him ask. I know he's staring at the headline of the paper, trying to see my expression through it. Heat floods through me at the question. A question I don't want to answer.

"Because," I say lamely.

I hear his uneven footsteps cross the kitchen and stop in front of me. The top of my paper crinkles down and his blue eyes peer at me over the top. Slightly confused, somewhere between disappointed and a hint of amused.

"You do realize you're reading this upside down, right?" he says. I focus on the paper and sure enough the words are all upside down. My cheeks burn and I tug the papers out of his grasp, flip it right side up, and hide my face back behind it. "Katniss," says Peeta quietly. Tears prick my eyes again. Get a grip, Katniss. Time to harden your heart. It's kind of hard to do, though, with a husband like mine. Who makes me feel those emotions that are supposed to make me human. It started with a burnt loaf of bread and a debt I can never repay and it hasn't gone away since. "Katniss," he says again. This time his tone, so soft and gentle, with just the right hint of pleading and pain that it blurs my eyes with tears. I continue to ignore him.

But when Peeta wants attention, he gets attention. And if I am reluctant to give it to him than he will drag it out of me. His hand closes on the top of the paper and gently tugs it from my grasp. He folds it back up and places it out of reach, his eyes burning into the top of my head, because with lack of anything else to hide me I decide to look down at my hands. His fingers slide under my chin, force my head up, forcing my gaze to meet his. He studies my face, eyebrows drawn together, trying to figure out what's going on in my head.

"Why don't you want children, Katniss?" he murmurs. My bottom lip trembles. A shallow, shuddering breath escapes me and the tears threaten to spill over. Only Peeta could have this kind of effect on me. And he's not even doing it on purpose. It's just who he is. So kind and good and hopeful that he honestly has no idea why I wouldn't want to bring children into this screwed up world. He has no idea what he does to me.

I tear my gaze away from him, push his hands down away from my face. I get up from the table and go to the window to turn my back to him, crossing my arms tightly over my chest. I can sense Peeta's confusion.

"Katniss, I—"

"I just don't, Peeta!" I snap. "I don't want kids! I can't do it! I can't face it! I don't want to have children!"

And without looking at him, because it's much easier to ignore his hurt than face it, I storm from the room, escaping out the backdoor. I cross the yard and jump over the low wall. I'm hardly aware of where I'm going. I just know I have to walk. I have to run. I have to escape from my problems. Try to outdistance my thoughts with the speed of my stride.

It's not working.

Why…why…why oh why did Peeta have to do this to me? WHY? Everything was fine. Everything was getting better. And then he springs this on me. Like it's nothing. Like it would make me happy to think about having children. Well, he's wrong about that. If I have children I will live the rest of my life in fear. Terrible fear. And guilt. I might as well throw that in there as well, because I can't subject anyone—especially someone I'm sure to love—to live in this cruel world. Where people starve and die and we do cruel, horrible things like send children to fight to the death. Where we destroy each other to near extinction…

A strangled chocking sound escapes my throat. Even though I never looked at Peeta's face I can imagine the pain there. I know I've hurt him. I hate that I've hurt him. It's a necessary evil. I will not—I refuse—to have a child. Why not, Katniss?

Angry tears stream down my cheeks, only making it halfway before they freeze to my cheeks. I'm an idiot. It's the middle of winter and I walked out of the house without so much as a coat. Lucky I had my boots on. I'm too afraid to go back and get my coat. I keep walking. Faster. Faster. I'm running. I'm sprinting. If I run fast enough I might just outdistance my feelings. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself…How can I be such a bitch to the one person who loves me so unconditionally? To the one person who has always, always stayed with me? Who I know will never leave me. Or, if he is somehow ripped from me, as when he was highjacked, will move heaven and earth and overcome the impossible to find his way back to me. I'm such a cold, heartless bitch.

At last when my breath comes in sharp, ragged gasps and the stich in my side becomes immobilizing, I come to an abrupt halt and fall to my knees. I bury my face in my hands, trying to catch my breath coming out in puffs of white cloud, making wheezing noises. And I try, fruitlessly, to staunch my tears.

When I start to shiver from the cold I look up, sniffing. Through blurry tears I observe where my feet have taken me.

I shouldn't be all that surprised. Fate has a way of reminding me of all that Peeta's done for me time and time again. I look upon a familiar sight. I'm even sitting underneath the apple tree.

The warm glow of the bakery spills over the snow, exuding warmth and life. And suddenly I am eleven years old again, starving, on the brink of death, huddled against the rain, defeated. And the kind blonde boy with the purple bruise blooming on his cheek is ripping off chunks of burnt bread to feed the pigs, checking if the coast is clear, and tossing the warm loaves to me. The boy with the bread.

I sit, lost in thought, in memories, huddled against the cold. How did someone as selfish as me end up with someone so selfless as Peeta?

Move, Katniss,I tell myself. If I stay here in the cold much longer I'll freeze to death. And Peeta would not be pleased with that.

I stand, shivering. I don't have to fight back new tears because they've already frozen. The bakery pulls me in, calls to me. I walk to the backdoor and turn the knob.

The sight that greets me is a welcome one, even if I feel I don't deserve it. One of the employees, Rex, is baking warm bread in the oven. The younger man smiles at me when he notices I am there.

"Hello, Mrs. Mellark," he greets. I nod at him, but am unable to smile. He frowns, noticing the frozen tear tracks on my face and my red eyes. It's not like the sight of me crying is an unfamiliar one to the people around me. I still think it makes me looks weak if I cry. But they don't. They understand that it's not easy to live with memories like mine. Rex does not comment on my emotional state and doesn't ask questions. That's one of the best things I like about him. He's tactful. Unlike everyone else, who are determined to find out what's wrong with me, Rex just doesn't ask. "Are you hungry, Mrs. Mellark?"

I nod. Rex places a fresh-from-the-oven warm loaf of bread in front of me. I eat in silence. The warm bread does wonders, filling me up, warming me from the inside out. Peeta's recipe. It tastes like home. It's comforting. Like a warm embrace from him. Almost as good as the real thing. Not quite, but almost. It does the job.

"I'll man the register today, Rex," I tell him. He nods in acknowledgement as he pulls more fresh bread from the oven. I throw the still-warm cloth the bread was wrapped in into the hamper for the wash before leaving the back of the store for the front.

There's a few people waiting. The woman and her child that come in every morning to buy half a dozen muffins for their family. The old man and women that buy a loaf of raisin bread every morning to split for breakfast. I give them what they need and engage in small talk. Thom, who grins at me as I hand him a cake.

"It's my daughter's birthday today," he says proudly. I smile at him and congratulate him.

"How old is she?" I ask.

"Two," he says. He's as giddy as a schoolboy and this for some reason stabs me right where I'm hurting. Is this how Peeta would react? No. He'd be even more excited. He'd shout to the rooftops that his little girl is two years old. He'd be proud of everything she did, no matter how insignificant. He'd hang up childish paintings and say they were masterpieces. He'd love any child we had so much. If it weren't for me. "Are you alright, Katniss?"

I realize my smile has become somewhat fixed.

"Oh, yes, sorry," I mutter, dropping his change in the register. "Tell her happy birthday from me," I tell him, smiling again. He returns it and waves as he leaves the bakery.

I close the cash register, alone now with my thoughts. I bury my head in my hands. Shame fills me for the way I treated Peeta this morning. For denying him and not even giving him a rational explanation. I'm not even sure I have a rational explanation. I just know I can't have children. I can't. It's something I've told myself since before I even hit puberty.

But everything has changed from the way I expected things to be when I was a child.

I surprise myself when I hear a sob escape from my own mouth.

"God, Katniss, keep it together," I whisper to myself.

The doorbell tinkles, signaling a customer. I drag my head out of my hands and force on a smile. But it disappears when I see who it is.

It's Peeta.

He looks mildly surprised to see me (it's not really my day to work at the bakery and I'm sure he expected me to run off to the woods after our argument), but recovers quickly.

Peeta's eyes linger on mine for a few moments, and then he goes to the front of the counter and places a few packages that are in his arms on the wooden counter. He avoids my eyes as he sorts them, but I can't look away from him, trying to decipher what he's thinking, trying to decipher what I'm thinking. At last he looks up at me across the counter.

"Hi, Katniss," he says softly. I don't answer, instead looking at him intently. Peeta sighs. "I'm sorry, Katniss."

This surprises me into speech.

"What on earth for?"

He frowns. "For pushing you. I shouldn't have brought it up, I should have guessed how you felt about it. I shouldn't have forced the issue on you."

"No…It's not…I just…" I try to explain myself clumsily. Peeta drops his keys on the counter and comes to stand in front of me, taking my hands in his and kissing them softly before resting them on the counter. I sigh, frowning. I don't deserve his kindness.

"Katniss," he says, gently prodding me to snap out of it. "It's okay, just tell me."

"I'm sorry I ran out on you this morning. I panicked."

He gazes at me steadily, waiting for me to finish.

"It's just…I know you want them but…I've spent my whole life knowing I couldn't risk that."

His eyes fall down to our entwined hands. His brows furrow as he frowns. "I understand," he whispers quietly.

"You do?" I exclaim in relief.

"Of course I do. I don't think there's a single person in the districts who wouldn't understand that fear. Everytime I think about having children I feel it, the anxiety. The fear of the Hunger Games." At the mention of it I suck in a breath and my stomach drops. He places a hand on my cheek to soothe me. "I know, it's okay. Shh, look at me Katniss." I raise my eyes to look into his. He wipes a tear away from my lashes before it has a chance to fall. "But it's different now, Katniss. It is," he says, because I see where he's going with this and I start to shake my head. "They're gone, Katniss. They're gone. There's no—"

The bell above the door tinkles, interrupting Peeta. He turns around to welcome the customer but doesn't drop my hand, squeezing it gently and shielding me from view of the customer, giving me a chance to wipe my eyes.

"Good morning! How can we help you today?"

"Two loaves of French bread, please."

I drop Peeta's hand and get the customer what she needs. Peeta moves around behind the counter and places a hand in the small of my back while I wrap the bread up. The customer hands Peeta the money and takes the bread.

"Are you alright, dear?" she asks me empathetically. I look up, surprised.

"Yes, thank you. Have a good day," I say automatically, trying to get rid of her. She gets the hint and leaves, the bell tinkling behind her. Peeta turns to me as soon as she's gone. He brushes my cheeks with his thumb and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"Let's talk about it when we get home, okay?" says Peeta gently. I nod my head. He gives me a soft kiss on the lips. "I love you."

"Love you too, Peeta," I say. He gives me a kiss on the forehead and lets me go. "Go help Rex, I've got the register."

"Are you sure?" he asks. I nod.

The day picks up as it wears on. We're kept busy by a constant stream of customers. This is a good thing, as it keeps me from dwelling. The smell of baking bread churns out of the back all day, making my stomach growl. I barely have five minutes to scarf down some of Peeta's cheese buns before the bell tinkles yet again. It's with relief that I finally switch the "open" sign to "closed" at the end of the day.

Peeta's decorating a cake when I enter the kitchen, eyes furrowed together and focused intently on a creating an elaborate sugared violet. Rex is cleaning up the messy kitchen. He looks over as I enter.

"Are we finally closed?" Rex asks in an exhausted voice. Peeta starts at this and looks up at me, blinking to shake himself out of his creative zone to take notice of me and smile. I nod at Rex's question. He sighs in relief.

"Busy day," I comment.

"The holidays are coming up," Peeta mutters, turning back to his violet. "It'll only get busier."

"Oh, joy," mutters Rex.

"I might have to hire extra help," Peeta says as he finishes off a green leaf. I watch him, fascinated, as he does an elaborate twist of his hands and a tiny beautiful flower appears out of the tube of red. He does this several times over with different colors and then finally steps back, scrutinizing his creation. It's completely beautiful, as usual. I'm always amazed at his creations. "That'll have to do. Rex, can you put this in the fridge?"

Rex does as Peeta says and Peeta scribbles down a note on the clipboard next to the door.

"Thank you for helping out today, Katniss," he says as he turns to me. "We would have been swamped without you."

"My pleasure," I say, and give him a light kiss on the cheek. He smiles slightly and a touch of a blush appears in his cheeks. I don't get this reaction every time I kiss him, but I get it surprisingly often considering. I love it when I do.

We get to work closing up shop and cleaning the place up. I count up the day's profits, Rex finishes cleaning up the kitchen and sweeping the front room, and Peeta sorts out the orders for tomorrow. When Rex is finished cleaning, Peeta dismisses him and Rex lets out a whoop. It's been a long day, especially for such a young kid. Rex is about sixteen and a lot more carefree than we were at his age. Perhaps because he doesn't have to worry about the Hunger Games. Or maybe it's just his nature.

"You ready to go home?" Peeta asks me as soon as he leaves.

"Almost." I put the record book back where it belongs, and lock up the front door and the cash register. "Ready."

Peeta gets his coat out of the closet, but instead of putting it on like I expect he wraps it around my shoulders.

"You forgot your coat this morning," he says with a soft smile. This unexpectedly kind gesture touches me and it hits me once again how kind Peeta is and how much I don't deserve him.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He pulls out a spare jacket for himself that is light, designed for fall weather and not this heavy winter snow. I pull him close as soon as we step into the cold to keep him as warm as possible. We hurry to the Victor's Village, but by the time we get into the house he's shivering and his teeth are chattering. I hurriedly start a fire and put him in a chair close to it, taking off the freezing cold jacket and wrapping a warm blanket around his shoulders. I take off Peeta's coat and toss it in a chair before kneeling in front of him and taking off his boots and socks, which are soaked with the snow. The prosthetic leg is like ice and I take it off him and set it within his reach before wrapping his freezing foot up in another blanket.

"Always taking care of me," he says. I look up to see him smiling slightly and his eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Well you take care of me," I mutter, looking away from him. I sit down in a chair next to him and take off my own socks and shoes before setting them and Peeta's close to the fire to dry. "What sounds good for supper? Soup?"

"Sounds delicious," says Peeta.

"You stay there and warm up. Supper's on me tonight."

He smiles softly, and looks up at me with that look on his face, that look that is always reserved for only me.

"Thank you, Katniss."

A/N: Well, basically, I wrote this a while ago and thought I might as well post it. When I first wrote this, I was going to group these together in some semblance of a plot, but basically screw it. I wrote this so long ago that I'm not going to bother anymore. I think the 'drabbles' can stand on their own as angsty/sweet/cute/sexy little moments, so I'm just going to chunk out what I've got written and post them.

Please please PLEASE review! I'm mainly posting this for reviews! I desperately could use some reviews! It will help in posting new stories/updating older ones!

This story will be updated once a week, since I've already got everything written. I'm thinking every Thursday or every Friday. What do you guys think?

Make sure to leave a review! Writers thrive off of feedback! Especially writers who have been in a pretty terrible slump recently!

3

~gfg