The Hunger Games and The Amazing Race do not belong to me. I make zero money from this. Wish I could, can't. It's very sad. Please read and review. -WNW

Good to Know

My phone is ringing. My phone is ringing. The sun isn't up. Why the hell is my phone ringing?

"Good morning. This is Effie Trinket calling for Katniss Everdeen," A shrill, but familiar sing-song voice bites through the receiver at my ear drum. I open my eyes just enough to check the time on the screen, snap my eyes shut again, and groan.

"Effie it's 5 in the morning," I grumble, not bothering with pleasantries in the hopes that my godfather's etiquette obsessed assistant will take offense at my non-greeting and hang up so I can go back to sleep. However, I'm apparently known for my barbarism and she continues on, un-phased, anyway. I don't crack my eyes. Maybe I can tune her out, fall back to sleep. Let it end soon.

"Haymitch would like to see you this afternoon in his office at four. Is that good for you," she asked.

"Schedule wise, yes. Mentally, no. How did you even know I was in town?" I'd only got in from Alaska the day before and was attempting to sleep through my jet lag. I'd been gone for over a month shooting a climb for the extreme nature magazine I work for. QUEST sends me all over the world with my camera. My editor, Jane Seeder, says I never miss my shot and my photos have graced the most covers since QUEST was established. It keeps me from home quite a bit, but it pays for Prim's med school, mostly. Prim had picked me up from the airport just yesterday and drove us back to our shared apartment. She has the run of the place while I'm gone, which is often, she's sweet enough to fib and say she gets lonely without me there. After a combination of wine, pizza, and the dish on Rory Hawthorne, who had finally asked her on a date last week, I had crashed on our couch. After four weeks sleeping on the ground, deciding between my bed and the couch was the least of my worries . Only Prim and Seeder had any information on my whereabouts, but leave it to Effie to know exactly where someone is at an exact time. It was her "Spidey-sense".

"So I'll put you down. We'll...he'll be so pleased to see you," Effie tells me, ignoring my "mentality" comment and probably hoping I ignore that she accidentally paired herself verbally with "Uncle" Haymitch. She thought they hid their whatever-it-is-they-were well, but not well enough to keep me from noticing. As early as it is, I'd bet she's at his apartment rather than the office. I grin at that.

"You do that. Roll over and tell the dirty old man, I'll be there," I poke the over dressed, over polite bear, in retribution for her calling so early. I hear her huff and Haymitch's chuckle in the background before I hang up.

I roll from the couch and pad into the kitchen for a glass of OJ. I eat a handful of grapes, glad to see Prim has a decently stocked fridge, I work too hard for her to go hungry. I take what feels like the best hot shower of my life. I love the wilderness, but plumbing is high on my list of favorite things. I don't have to share my shower with a bear, that's always a plus. When I get out, I can hear my cell ringing again. Effie already called, Prim's asleep, so it would have to be my boss.

"How did you get it," Seeder asks excitedly. "How did you get that shot of the grizzly."

Like minds, I guess.

"I was dirty. He was hungry and unless I wanted to be a naked appetizer to some trout, I had to stay put. Luckily, I was down wind."

"Remind me to check for bear attack insurance policies the next time we send you up there. This is great stuff Katniss; even the article is incredible. National Geographic eat your heart out."

"Just doing my job," I reply, trying to stay humble, but I'm smiling like mad.

"Well, keep it up. I've got to go see Michael about his article on Peru. He's going to be pissed that you edged him again."

Michael Salvichio and I had been in a tug of war for the cover of QUEST since Seeder hired me. He hates my guts. I kind of felt bad for him this time though, I lucked out with that bear in more ways than one and I'm sure it's hard to take a money shot of an alpaca. Then again Peru is gorgeous, it's not my fault he lacks creativity or sheer dumb luck.

I decide to crawl into my own bed for a couple more hours, so I won't be too snippy with Haymitch. We aren't known for being warm and cuddly as much as we may love each other. When I wake up, I feel less likely to butt heads with the old man just for the hell of it, but only just. I get dressed quickly, throwing on my favorite jeans and an old t-shirt from my high school. Panem Panthers Baseball State Championship 2007. It's comfortable. I'm eating a cold slice of pizza when Prim, comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her head and talking on the phone.

"Mhmm, I'll tell her. See you then."

She smiles at me after she hangs up.

"Um, Rory says that Gale says hi."

"Oh," I smile back, forcefully. "Next time you see Rory, give them my love."

She gives me a knowing look before disappearing into her bedroom, but doesn't say anything.

The summer before college Gale proposed. It was a shock to me. As tied at the hip as we were, I had no idea he even felt anything for me, let alone strong enough to ask me to marry him. We just worked on so many levels and we did "love" each other, in at least one of the definitions of that word. I get that. But, he knew I didn't want to get married or have kids, not after my parents died and I became essentially Prim's mother. And how could I do that to him, marry him without passion or purpose? I didn't have time to be a wife and a mom. I told him as much, as gently as I could. He didn't talk to me for a year and then another. He completely cut me off. I didn't hear from him again until he bumped into our old friend Madge at State. He called three weeks after their first date to apologize. That was six years ago. They're married now and she's due in October. I never developed the same feelings Gale had for me. I never grasped a deeper, more heated definition of love, but in the past years something had begun to change. My empty bed seemed colder. Babies looked cuter. It was terrifying. The thought that I kind of wanted one and the thought that I probably wouldn't ever have one. I'd blown my only real shot. I'd had a few relationships after the proposal, but nothing amounted to much; nothing caused a true spark. The heat eluded me. I wanted what my parents had. There never were two people more in love than that. The thought of them stings my eyes. They died my junior year in high school, drunk driver. I wanted what they had. It didn't seem too much to ask, but I'd long since come to the conclusion that a love like that couldn't be found in times like this. So I married my work.

I called a taxi, kissed Little Duck on top of the head, and headed out for Haymitch's office. I tried to focus on guessing what he could want rather than thinking about how empty our apartment would be tonight. Rory was taking Prim out for the first time. She had offered to reschedule, but I thought she'd waited long enough. She'd been in love with Rory since kindergarten. Maybe I could just live vicariously through her, be the cool aunt that buys great souvenirs. That was a heartening thought.

It wasn't all that long a ride. I paid the driver and strolled into Haymitch's building. Haymitch was a publicist, in charge of tailoring the public images of the many employed by Snow Media Corporation. SMC was a national broadcast station, famous for reality television, news, and the occasional new hit drama. As my place was behind a camera instead of in front of it, I was completely at a loss as to why Haymitch wanted to meet at his office. Still, I owe my career to Haymitch, when he calls, I answer. I'd originally started my college days as an English major, certain I was destined to teach middle school at Panem High. I was required to take an elective in my basics and familiar with my dad's old camera, I decided on photography. Much to my own surprise, I was a natural. Upon seeing the portfolio for my final my sophomore year, Haymitch handed it around to a few friends. Seeder called and the rest is history. I made it through the bustling lobby and gratefully found an empty elevator. The people person I am, I immediately started jabbing the closed door button. I nearly had it too, but suddenly a hand reached out.

"Hold the elevator!" Dammit. A long arm followed the hand and I had to bite down hard on my lip to keep from gasping. Because that long arm, that large bronze hand, belonged to the first name on the roster you could read on the back of my t-shirt. 2007's State Baseball Champ, All American, MVP, Class President, Local Do-Gooder, and the person I spent the majority of senior year avoiding like the plague: Peeta Mellark. Double dammit.

As soon as recognition lights in his eyes, a mile wide, hundred watt smile spreads across his face and the doors close behind him. I'd successfully managed to never be alone with him for nearly eight years now, until fate, the heartless bitch she is, saw fit to intervene.

"Katniss." It's not a question or a greeting. Just my name and he fumbles with his hands for a minute and I'm scared for a moment that he's going to hug me. But he jams his hands into the pockets of his dark denim jeans and I inwardly sigh in relief. That was one of the good things about Peeta, he knew how to handle people, or in my case not handle them at all.

"Hi," I reply and I notice with dismay that he hasn't pushed a floor button, meaning he must be heading to the 21st like me. He turns from me to face the doors.

"How are you," he asks quietly. His voice is controlled.

"Great. Little tired. Always busy. You ," I respond, looking at the tops of my trainers.

"Same," he says and leaves it at that. We reach the fourteenth floor before someone else gets in and Peeta steps closer to me. He smells like sandlewood, leather, and cinnamon rolls. It's ridiculous. Those scents are not supposed to work together, but they do. I also immediately wish, I'd had more than a slice of cold pepperoni before I came. My stomach growls and I'm certain I see the corner of his lips turn up in a smile. He looks almost the same, but his golden blonde curls used to flop carelessly over his ears and over his forehead: now his hair is cropped close on the sides, the top stylishly swept to one side. He's in dark jeans and a light blue button up. He seems polished. I'm pretty positive my sole is detaching from the bottom of my sneaker and the hole I'm fond of in the knee of my jeans is fraying to a ridiculous point, but I can't seem to give up on them. After the longest and quietest elevator ride in history. We both file out of the elevator. He apologizes gruffly for having bumped me trying to make it around a hurried looking woman carrying a stack of papers up to her chin. I smile half in exasperation and half in comfort when I spy Effie at her desk.

"Some things never change," Peeta says and I nod in agreement. Effie's flamboyant style had once been the talk of the town when she was the secretary of Panem High. That is, until Haymitch hired her and brought her up, up, up into the big city life. Now, her bright, powder pink, puffy sleeved mini dress, with matte, baby blue stilettoes seemed oddly appropriate, even her hair, stacked high enough to make a Texan beauty queen question the hold of her own hairspray, seemed right. She was excited to see us. How she skipped to us in those little blue death traps I'll never know, but she was around the desk and hugging me in seconds. Effie has only one Spidey-sense and unlike Peeta she does not instinctively know just how much attention someone else is comfortable with. She kisses my cheeks and I'm increasingly glad her bright lip color is the expensive, stay-put kind. Pink isn't my thing. Peeta however, sensing my discomfort, loops and arm around her waist and scoops her up, spinning her effortlessly as if they're characters out of a fifties movie.

"How's my favorite receptionist," Peeta laughs.

"Glorious," she replies.

"If Principal Coin could see you now," he congratulates and she beams. He always did know just what to say.

"Put down my favorite receptionist Slugger, before I call security," and there's Haymitch, winking at Peeta from the door of his office. He does the old jab and weave with Peeta, then wraps him in a manly hug, clapping his back, before holding him at arms length.

"You were right, baking was the way to go, you're looking good my man," Haymitch praises. "Not even soft around the middle." He poked Peeta's stomach experimentally.

"Back at you, you must have found the fountain of youth," Peeta replies. Haymitch jerks his head at Effie. "That one keeps me on my toes."

Effie smiles softly and for once the pink in her cheeks is natural. It's a nice picture the three of them. They mingle so well.

"What are you doing over there Sweetheart, the party's over here," Haymitch says spying me lingering at the edge of their welcome fest. He snakes an arm around my waist and pulls me in tight to his side. Once, I would have flinched at the contact. Once, he would gave smelt deeply of booze and sweat, his body weak and in disrepair. But, today I soften, squeezing my Godfather back, thankful for the strong arm and the hard side I'm trapped against, to breath in the smell of aftershave and fabric softener. I remind myself to be kinder to Effie. If not for that technicolor whirlwind/walking itinerary, I doubt if he'd have come so far. Peeta gives me an unfathomable look and I disconnect, stepping back. Perhaps, Effie is more empathetic than I guessed or she's just trying to keep us on schedule, because she directs us into the conference room next to Haymitch's office. Oddly enough, she escorts in a grinning Henry Undersee, Mayor of Panem, as well as a stout, pale man with white blonde hair, I don't readily know, just as we're sitting down. I put myself as far from Peeta as I can without appearing rude. Safe with a huge, highly polished table between us, I notice he gives me a look that I read as both hurt and impatience and I instantly feel guilt. It's not him. It's me. I don't manage being in debt to someone well. And I am greatly indebted to him. When my parents died, I was only seventeen and Prim thirteen, our godfather was a raging alcoholic, who lived uptown, and our pantry was empty. We were a social worker's nightmare. I worked two jobs and went to school, but that was barely enough to scrape together what we needed. I was hungry a lot those days. It wasn't Haymitch's fault. He couldn't have known, because I wouldn't tell him. I couldn't bare to ask something of someone so broken. Gale helped where he could, but we were sinking. The idea of someone realizing how close we were to over our heads terrified me. Would they take Prim? Poor, soft Prim. I was on the verge of dropping school to take on full time work when the first basket arrived. It was huge and full to the brim with boxed meals, milk, eggs, fresh fruit, vegetables, and bread, and I wouldn't have guessed who it was from, had it not been for the cookies. There was a box of beautifully decorated cookies, some with delicate lace designs, others were dahlias, sunflowers, dandelions, tiger lilies, sugary iced petals in vibrant colors, that could only come from one place: Mellark's. I told myself when I took the first bite of a cookie, a brilliant yellow dandelion, that I would go to school the next day and thank Peeta, but I couldn't. Not only was he always surrounded by his uptown friends, the shame I felt at being a charity case was so incredible I couldn't bear to be in his sight. Despite my behavior, a basket arrived every two weeks for a year and a half, until I graduated high school. Prim moved in with a dried out Haymitch after I got my scholarship and the fear of going hungry disappeared, but I never forgot it, nor did I forget the baskets.
I peek sideways at him again, thankful his attention is drawn to the man we don't know, shaking hands with Haymitch. Peeta is pleasant to look at, I won't lie about that. He has a strong jaw, his baby face has slimmed somewhat and his new hair cut has helped accentuate that. He has nice smile, that he over uses. Then he looks back to me for a moment and catches me inspecting him. I'd forgotten the color of his eyes. I must not have given them the merit they were due before, because they are really something. Middle of the ocean blue, that's what I would call them. Not light, but not dark, changing almost, and fringed with enviable eyelashes. He holds my gaze for a moment before Haymitch gets down to business and I turn away.

"Alright, Slugger, Sweetheart, this is Plutarch Heavensbee and you know Mayor Undersee. Plutarch it's all yours."

The blond man clears his throat and smoothes the front of his charcoal suit, with a smile.

"Haymitch and I recently pitched an idea for a new show to the big guys and they were intrigued. So intrigued were they, in fact, they gave us the green light. It's a different kind of reality show. We thought reality needed to punch up the action," he punched the air with his solid, meaty fist to further the point, before continuing. " Our idea was for ten teams of two to race around the world, completing challenges, sometimes facing the elements, fatigue, having to work with their partners on and off camera. It'll be physically and emotionally grueling, which is why, when we were asked what sort of people would make up the teams this season, we decided to go for a crowd pleaser, home town heroes," Plutarch pauses, "Haymitch and I of course got to choose the home towns."

"And that's where we come in," I interrupted. "That's hardly fair. Nepotism isn't going to look good on your resume old man. I don't think this is a good idea," I say, starting to rise from my chair, ready to find the smallest of reason to make a quick exit before I'm cast in the new vamped up American Gladiators, but Mayor Undersee, cuts in.

'Haymitch didn't choose you, either of you for that matter, as contestants. You were elected."
I raise a brow skeptically and slide back into my seat. Damn.

"Actually, it's better that way," Haymitch explains. "Especially for the audience. We let them decide, choose their people's champions. They chose you. You can always decline of course, but listen close Sweetheart, here's the part you'll be most interested in. The winners' prize is one million dollars. Even split fifty-fifty, I'd say that covers sweet Primrose's medical school and you could even move to Soho after. No more ramen."

He lets that settle for a moment. Certain he has me. They all are, each of the men in this room looks positively satisfied, excepting Peeta, whose face had become an unreadable mask.

"How intrusive would this be," I ask.

"There will be an interview for the premiere so the people back home can get to know you better and a camera crew will follow you right up to your hotel door and probably further if you don't lock it," Plutarch supplies honestly. I make a face.

"What about our jobs," I ask again.

"I spoke with Seeder this morning. She thinks it'll be a lovely exclusive article for QUEST, the magazine will thrive. It would only help your career. As for Peeta, he owns his company. I'm sure he could delegate his duties to a trusted employee for a time."

I cast an impressed look Peeta's way and he blushes.

"How long do we have to think about it," I ask.

"Long enough for the two of you to mull it over in the café downstairs for an hour, Snow is not a patient man and he wants filming to begin ASAP. You are the last team to accept, we have a limited amount of time to find new contestants. It would be most... inconvenient," Haymitch answers giving me a hard stare that I return.

"I'll be up in an hour. I can't speak for Peeta though," I tell them, standing.

"I'll join you," he says rising. He opens the door for me and we slip past Effie on the phone, and into the elevator.

"He did that on purpose," I remark darkly as the doors close. "Saving us for last, knowing I'd have to make a quick decision and would hate to leave him high and dry. He knows I don't do cameras."

"I think your photos beg to differ " Peeta replies, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"You know what I mean. I'm a private person. They're going to dig into the past, air out my tragedies, especially for this hometown hero bit they want me to play."

"You think I don't have a few skeletons hanging up in my closet," Peeta asks, and he turns to me. His eyes are wide and honest and eyes that had occasionally been blacked by his mother. He and his brothers had always lied, chalked it up as an accident or just boys playing rough, but after a while everyone knew.

"I know you do," I admit, then look away from him. His scrutiny is too deep. "And you're alright with that? With someone knowing about that?"

"Most everyone I know on a personal level knows about my childhood. Why should it bother me if strangers do," he answers as we step from the elevator. "Besides," Peeta says, leading the way to the café, "Somewhere someone else is dealing with the same thing. I'd like them to see it can and does get better."

I think on that a while as we purchase our drinks, a hot chocolate for me and an earl gray for him. He drinks it without sugar.

"We're going to spend a lot of time together, if we do this I mean," I said quietly.
He chuckles. It's a nice sound.

"If that's why you're so apprehensive, I should be offended. Most people like me actually," he says smiling.

"Oh no, I like you, I mean, I was just putting it out there," I say quickly.

"I know what you meant, I think," he chuckles again. "I don't think I'll mind, if you don't."
I nod, but take another noncommittal sip of my hot chocolate.

"What's catching you up Katniss," he asks. "There's a chance to end any of your financial problems. Your going to cause a lot of good publicity for your magazine. You have the opportunity to inspire people that might need it. Only good can come of this."

"I don't know. I guess it feels kind of like charity," I sigh.
He doesn't say anything for a moment and I look up at him. He fixes me with an intense look I'm not prepared for. Those eyes are too expressive.

"I don't see what's so wrong with getting a little help," he says softly. He goes back to his tea and me to my chocolate.

"Are you in," he asks after a time.

"I can't find a reason why not," I reply back. "Trust me. I've been trying."
He laughs.

"Let's go tell Haymitch then."

We've made it to the fifteenth floor when I stop the elevator.

"Thank you for the baskets. I'm sorry I didn't say anything before, I should have and the longer I didn't the harder it became to say anything at all." I almost whisper, staring deeply at the front pocket of his shirt as if it were feeding me lines and feeling the heat rising out of my neck into my face.

"Is that why you've treated me like a pariah all this time," he asks and I can feel his gaze on my face.

"Pretty much," I admit sheepishly. He laughs lowly and shakes his head at me. He's doing that thing with his hands again, uncertain what he's doing with them. He gives me a wary sort of look, sighs, and hits the floor button on the elevator with his uneasy hands.

" Good to know." he remarks quietly and we ride the rest of the way up in a comfortable silence. Haymitch and Plutarch are overjoyed and after our signatures, we become the tenth and final team on the first ever season of Around the World.