A/N

Okay, so this is for the thirty percent of you who actually read this.

I just finished re-reading The Hunger Games series (which is most likely the most genius series I've ever read, no offense Harry Potter and Twilight, so I was especially inspired to write a sequel to Mockingjay. I didn't really like how it ended (with that very vague epilogue) and all. So this story is what would happen before the epilogue and before she officially hooked up with Peeta. Some of the time of events will be changed, but it will make the story better (I hope). Anyway, I just wanted to say that to clear up any confusion.

Secondly, I just wanted to say that I am obviously that genius author Suzanne Collins and all props go to her. I don't really understand why people always add disclaimers to their stories (considering, they are most obviously not the original creator) but that's just me. You can do whatever you want with my story, I was just clearing that up also.

Lastly, if you see anything you like or want to change or just want to make a suggestion on, then be my guest. I love hearing comments to my stories.

Sorry for such a long authors note, here's the story:)

Chapter 1

The familiar crunch of the fallen leaves beneath my boots sooth's my nerves almost instantly. They drain from my body quickly and awe replaces them shortly after. As I look around, I realize that this is a lucky day to have decided to hunt. The air is crisp and clean, clearing my mind of its worry and distress the past months have brought on. The chill that runs down my spine is welcoming, cooling the beads of sweat developing on my forehead. And in that perfect second, everything feels the same. Normal. As if Prim had never been picked for the Hunger Games, I had never volunteered, and the mere thought of another rebellion ever starting was insignificant. When I was still partly myself- of course, I wasn't completely myself, from the lack of a father, but the tough one that fiercely protected my family- not the broken, scratched, drowned, burned, broken result of Katniss Everdeen.

The unexpected snapping of a fallen tree branch brings me back to present day, to the truth. I spin around, rising my bow far above my head- not the fancy one Beetee made for the Mockingjay, but the one my father built with his own strong hands while he was still alive. The arrow is ready to be released when my eyes register the being.

"Dammit, Haymitch." I snap, letting the arrow fall to the ground. "You know better than to startle someone with weapon in hand. That's how people end up dead."

Haymitch Abernathy, my former mentor and present neighbor part walks- part falls in my direction until we're only a few inches from each other. As I bend to pick the arrow up, the sweet stench of alcohol wafts off of his tongue and on to my face. "I've made it thisss far haven't I, sweeeetheart?"

I nod reluctantly. I'll give the drunk bastard this; it's true, he has.

"What do want?" I ask, annoyed by his appearance. "I have to be getting this fresh game back to Greasy Sae for her stew before its completely rotted." I know its an exaggeration, it would take hours for that meat to spoil. But I don't feel like talking to Haymitch.

When he doesn't immediately reply, I bend down and retrieve my game bag, slinking my bow over my head and across my left shoulder. I begin to trudge back through the forest when I hear his voice echo through the trees.

"We need to talk!" He yells after me, not even slurring his words like last time.

I halt in my tracks, stopping only because of the familiarity in the tone. Its the voice he uses when things are serious, when we really do need to talk. I wait for him to reach me until I answer. "Make it quick." I say, pointing to the game bag being grasped firmly in my hand.

Haymitch gets right down to business as soon as we take a seat on a mossing log lying conveniently nearby. "A meeting is being held regarding the upcoming Hunger Games of the Capital."

I shrug my shoulders. "How does this concern me?"

"The meetings between the President and the remaining victors. And probably Plutarch."

It takes me exactly no seconds to respond. "I'm not going back to the Capital. I never will. You can count me out." My eyes search over him quickly, looking to see if he had brought some kind of mechanism to drug me so I'd be forced to attend the meeting, even if I refused- which I'm sure everyone knew I would. When they find nothing but a half empty wine bottle, I relax just a little.

My thoughts come true when he says "We all knew you would, so everyone came here."

My eyes just about bug out of my skull as my mouth hangs down to my feet. "What?"

"People will begin to arrive at your house in a couple of hours. The meeting is being held in your dinning room, after Greasy Sae serves dinner. Guards will be on constant watch."

And after he says those words, I know he has told them not to ask my approval, but as a warning. He has come to warn me of the people who will be taking refuge in my house soon. "Why hasn't anyone told me until now?"

He goes quiet looking at the ground. When he doesn't reply I grow angry. "Haymitch!"

"Fine." He says finally. "No one wanted to upset you. You are needed at the meeting, and we know how you go into your fits sometimes."

"I do not go into fits!" I shriek, though we both know its a lie.

"Sure. Well, I've come to collect you then. You're coming one way or another."

He is not strong enough to carry a writhing girl through the woods for about a mile, but that is why he has brought back-up. As I look closer into the woods, I realize soldiers- most likely Paylors', have taken an almost circle form around me. I have no chance at running now. I mentally kick myself for not noticing sooner.

"Does Peeta know?" Though I asked the question, I already know the answer.

He nods. "He knows how to control his anger better."

Of course Peeta Mellark, my fellow tribute in the 74th Hunger Games from district 12, my neighbor, my portrayed lover, and- most importantly- my friend, knew. "Fine, then. Lets get this over with." I say, surprised at how calm my voice appears. When Haymitch doesn't rise up from the log with me, I give him a questioning look.

"I thought we'd need a whole team of incredibly trained soldiers to get you to come with me."

I shrug my shoulders. "I'm not as strong as I once was." I'm not sure if I mean mentally or physically; because it would be true for both. The Hunger Games and the war have weakened my body over time. Shortness of breath comes almost every time I walk more than a few yards, and I tire easily now. When I look in the mirror, the person looking back is not me. Of, course, I know it has to be. But the youth I had has been robbed from my eyes. They're dark and vancant, souless. This is nothing compared to my mental state. The suicidal thoughts that haunted my mind constantly have begun to decrease, but not by a significant amount. Visions of my sister weave in and out of my head constantly, only going away when I concentrate on old habits, like hunting.

"None of us are. The capital has succeeded in their ultimate task. Even though they lost the war, they've still managed to break us."

As we make our way back to my house, we stay quiet. Haymitch and I are so similar, neither of us are one for meaningless conversation. Instead of talking, we look at the familiar streets that had been blown up in the earlier bombings. They're just getting starting to get rebuilt. My eyes wander over the large heaps of gray ash lying where the buildings that made up my home used to be. Suddenly, when I find where the bakery used to be an ache begins in my chest.

"Hey, Haymitch," I ask, penetrating the silence between us at last. "I thought Peeta was re-building the bakery."

"I thought he was also. Guess he gave up that dream."

I think that over. Peeta wasn't the type of person to give up on something. Especially when that something was the only thing left he had of his family. I let it drop though. Haymitch didn't know anything.

Once we reach my house in Victors Village, Haymitch says his farewell and slumps back to his house, complaining about the lack of alcohol in district 12 as he went. I shook my head and smiled slightly. It was replenishing to know somethings will never change.

I walked up to the house, and am immediately greeted by the smell of some kind of filling in the oven. As I walk closer I realize that Greasy Sae isn't the only one working hastily in the kitchen. I drop my game bag on the counter next to her and she gives me a toothy grin. Then I turn to Peeta working over a cooking board, kneading dough vigorously.

"Hey." I say.

Peeta looks up and grins at me the way he used to. "Hey. You didn't kill Haymitch did you?"

I know he's just kidding, so I play along. "No, he made it out alive. I can't promise such things for you though."

This just makes his grin fall, being replaced by a sincere grimace. "I'm sorry. I really am. I wasn't allowed to tell you. We didn't want you to get upset."

"It's okay. I understand. It's probably better that I wasn't told until now. Gave me a few more days of sanity."

He nods, then asks something that startles me. "Katniss, do you want to help me?"

I am taken back by this. He had never asked before, as I was such a bad cook. Under normal circumstances, I would have declined the offer. But something in that spark in his cool blue eyes says he'll be hurt if I do.

"Sure." I say, shocking myself and bringing a smile back to his face. "What do I have to do"

"First, you have to wash your hands."

I nod.

I go over to the sink, and am rubbing the soap between my hands when Greasy Sae speaks from behind me. "Well, I'll be going now. Take the filling out in 20 minutes. Oh, and Katniss?"

I turn towards her, surprised that she has something more to say- Sae is usually a quiet women.

"Beware of Mr. Grab-Hands over there." She says pointing at Peeta with bony finger. Then she walks out, yelling "20 minutes!" just before we here the front door swing shut.

I go back to the the sink, trying to hide the fact that my mouth was just about to the floor and my cheeks were a bright crimson color. The water running from the faucet covered up the sound of my laughter, or so I thought it did, because when I turned around Peeta is also laughing.

"Okay, 'Mr. Grab-Hands', what am I to do now?" I ask, cracking a smile at his new nickname.

Peeta gives me a look, then continues with the directions. "Well, I've already made the dough, now I'm rolling it out. You can help with that."

I go to the counter where he is, and he moves over for me to take his place. I place my hands on the smooth mound of dough on the cooking board and start trying to knead it. Immediately, the dough breaks off in my hands and I curse under my breath. "I can't do this." I admit, dropping the dough bits I had accidentally broke off.

"Yes you can," Peeta whispers in my ear, his lips closer to me than I thought. "You just have to be more gentle." And then he takes my hands in his, working the dough in an almost rhythmic way so that its perfect when were done.

"You have more patience than I'll ever have." I comment to him when we're done.

He nods. "But, you're stronger than I'll ever be."

I think that over. "Maybe strategically, but definitely not physically. I can hardly walk without gasping for air moments later."

It is after I say those words that I notice how close we actually are. Peeta has me pressed up against the counter looking at him. I push against his chest slightly, to back him away from my personal space. But instead, he comes closer. Before I know it, his lips are on mine and he's pulling me closer to his body. I fight against him, but to no avail. I was right to say he was stronger than me. I give up and just let him drag his tongue on the inside of my mouth until he break away for air.

"Are you done?" I ask, no sarcasm even in my voice.

"Yeah. Sorry, I guess old feelings emerging."

"Really?" I ask. "Because they seemed pretty recent to me."

He smiles and is about to say something when the beeper on the oven goes off, the obnoxious sound radiating through the kitchen so that it's impossible to miss. Peeta goes to retrieve the filling from the oven, and that gives me time to escape. I sprint from the kitchen, down the hall, up the stair, and eventually make it to my room. I collapse on my bed, completely out of breath from the running.

As my heart rate finally begins to fall, and I can breath properly again, my minds begins to race. I try to decipher what all the words and actions we exchanged leading up to the kiss meant. Did I give him false indications that I wanted it to happen? Did I mean for it to happen? Did I like what happened?

At that last thought, I nod my head. Of course I liked what happened.

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