Title: Breaking Bread

Fandom: The Hunger Games

Author: dannybailey

Genre: Drama

Rating: PG-13 for a brief description of gore

Summary: Even on Reaping Day life must go on. Peeta watches the storefront on the morning of the reaping for the 74th Hunger Games. He has a few visitors.

Author's Note:My goal is to show a series of interactions between Peeta and Haymitch. This is the first one. Hopefully there will be more. They have such an interesting dynamic, and we never get to see them without Katniss around, which I'm sure alters their behavior. Especially Peeta. :) Anyway, thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: All original concepts and characters are mine. All of the familiar concepts and characters are property of the author, Suzanne Collins. I'm not making any money off of this work. It's all in good fun.

Haymith Abernathy would occasionally, usually by accident, sober up for a few hours at a time. Sometimes, when he felt well enough, he would come into the bakery, looking for something other than liquor to put in his stomach. Peeta did not know him well.

When the bell on the door of the bakery chimed Peeta looked up, began to smile, and then saw who had walked through the door. The draft of morning air that flew in was lukewarm and just a little bit humid as it accompanied Haymitch inside.

Today he was off balance, walking with his head and shoulders pushed forward like he was trying to push an invisible battering ram against an imaginary foe. Then again, Peeta thought, it was Reaping Day. Maybe the foe wasn't imaginary. Regardless, Haymitch was certainly not sober now, and Peeta doubted that he had come in looking for dinner rolls.

Haymitch stopped abruptly inside the door, reeled, and then looked around the room, blinking as though he had never seen the inside of the bakery before.

Suddenly he scowled. "This isn't the apothecary," he grumbled in his ruined voice.

Peeta didn't respond immediately. The apothecary had been closed for 11 years, since the old couple that ran the shop died with no children to stay on. Amarant Everdeen was the wife of a coal miner and therefore forbidden from working in town. Now the poorest families took their sick to her home in the Seam, and the rest prayed that they had enough to pay the doctor's fees.

Peeta knew his mother would be furious if he let a customer leave without buying anything. "What are you looking for," he asked Haymitch. "Maybe we have something here that could help."

"I doubt it," Haymitch muttered, but he began to walk toward the counter. Peeta eyed him with apprehension. This was the man who accompanied the District 12 tributes to the games each year. That meant that two years ago, he got on a train with Peeta's friend Tavish and came back without him. Peeta wondered if Haymitch had been drunk the entire time.

He looked Peeta over appraisingly. "Shouldn't you be at the square?" His question sounded more curious than accusatory.

"It's hours yet until we have to show up." You should know, Peeta thought. You have to be there too.

"I got stuck with the early shift," he told Haymitch. "My mother didn't trust me to show up for work this afternoon." He smiled, but Haymitch either didn't catch the joke, or didn't think it was funny. He just pushed his eyebrows together and frowned more deeply.

Before the silence had time to settle, the bell rang again. Fennel Marsh strolled through the door, his shoes squeaking and his cologne smelling pungent and cheap. "I got me these shoes on credit," he announced into the silence. "Yes sir," he rubbed his hands together briskly and smiled at Peeta and Haymitch, "even Dougherty knows I'm gonna make a bundle today. I've got eighty-seven coin on Gale Hawthorn to go. Can you believe I got six people to lay their money against that kid?"

He hooted and started to laugh, and Peeta thought that maybe he was the only person in the room who was not drunk. "Any takers," Fennel asked once his laughter had died down. "If you're feeling lucky you could go with an underdog. Joan Vervain's a good choice. She's sitting right in the middle. Not too much risk. Not a bad payoff. Whaddaya say?"

Haymitch never turned around, and when Fennel grew quiet he spoke in a low voice. "You can get out now."

Peeta watched the two men warily. Fennel ignored Haymitch's suggestion, and stepped closer to the counter. He smiled at Peeta. "How about you, kid? You've pulled a few coin as well. Rumor has it you're in tessera this year."

Peeta took shaky breath and echoed Haymitch's sentiment as politely as he could manage. "I think you should leave Mr. Marsh. No one here is interested in your offer."

Fennel scowled at Peeta and for a moment he glared in what was probably an attempt to look menacing, but when the silence stretched on for a few more beats he threw up his hands. "Well just don't say that it wasn't extended," he said as he spun slowly on his heel and ambled out the door.

While Fennel had spoke, Haymitch's gaze had focused and hardened on a point far into the distance. Now, he returned and his eyes were hazy and sad again. He stumbled across the rough wooden floor and braced himself on the counter in front of Peeta.

"Can't abide people like that," Haymitch muttered. "Not without a bottle at least."

Peeta raised his eyebrows, because from the stumble in his walk and the slur in his speech Haymitch had probably already had a bottle this morning. But he didn't say anything, because of that look that he had seen in Haymitch's eyes while Fennel bet on who would be reaped this afternoon. Maybe two years ago he really tried to help Tavish. Maybe what his eyes focused on in those moments were of Tavish's gut falling inside out onto the brown sand of the desert arena in the 72nd Games. Maybe it hurt too much to hear Fennel anticipate another two.

"I'll take that potato farl if it's fresh" Haymitch said abruptly.

Peeta blinked and then caught himself. "Yes sir, it is."

"Well hand it over then," Haymitch muttered as he pulled his wallet from inside his coat.

Peeta wrapped the farl in paper and held it out to Haymitch. When he reached out to take it, Peeta saw that Haymitch's hands shook so badly that he nearly missed the package. "Good luck kid," he grunted as he turned to go.

"Thank you sir."

When the bell tinkled again, Peeta let out a heavy breath and rubbed his hands on the front of his apron. He could admit it to himself, he was nervous.

"Peeta," Leven Mellark said as he came into the store from the baking room in the back. "Was someone here?"

"Yeah," Peeta said. "Haymitch Abernathy." A doubtful expression crossed his father's face, but he stopped and leaned casually against the frame of the door. His face was ruddy from the heat of the ovens, and his arms were covered in flour and bits of dough from the tips of his fingers to his elbows. Peeta smiled at him, and slowly, as though considering it for a moment, Leven smiled back.

"He bought a potato farl," Peeta added.

Leven nodded. "He's probably having a rough day. We all are. But hey," he said, his tone lighter, "I found us something good for lunch."

"You did?" Peeta's voice was good-natured, if skeptical.

"Well," Leven admitted, "I did, in the sense that someone knocked on my back door and offered to sell it to me."

"Katniss," Peeta asked, a hint of alarm coloring his voice.

Leven chuckled. "The Hawthorne boy, actually. But he did mention that she might stop by this afternoon. You should try saying hello to her some time."

Sensing a conversation that he did not want to have, Peeta changed the subject to the first thing that came to his mind. "Fennel Marsh came in here too."

Leven's eyes narrowed at the name. "Was he with Haymitch," he asked.

"No," Peeta said quickly. "He just came in while Haymitch was here. He was taking bets on the Reaping today." His voice was mild, but he kept his eyes on the floor as he added, "He said some people have bet on me to go."

Leven's jaw tightened and he walked toward his son. He rested one of his big hands on Peeta's shoulder. He didn't say anything, because there was nothing to say.

Peeta decided to break the silence. "Maybe I should have put some money down against myself. At least if I lose I can skip town without too much difficulty."

Leven's smile was sad though, and his blue eyes seemed dark as he looked at his youngest son. "You would never do that Peeta," he said in a low voice. "Integrity is what they take away from the districts with the Games. Fennel Marsh never had any to begin with, and that's why he treats them like a holiday."

His smile brightened slightly. "Hey," Leven said, "your cookies are getting really good. If you do go to the capitol maybe you can pick up a couple of tips. You can teach them a few tricks too, I'd imagine. Really impress those sponsors."

"Right," Peeta agreed, the slight lilt in his voice the only hint that he was lying. "I've been working on getting the frosting to look shaded. I doubt they've seen that before." He dragged his finger through the dusting of flour on the counter top. Leven's comments hung in the silence between them. They both knew that if he were to go to the Capital, cookies would be neither his purpose nor his salvation.

Leven looked at the small window in the bakery storefront. Peeta had rearranged the display a few days ago, placing the brightly decorated cakes on boxes that he had wrapped in colored paper and set at different heights. Kids on their way home from the schoolhouse would press their noses against the wavy glass panes, their eyes widening to the size of dinner plates, until Vesta would scold them for smudging the window and shoo them away.

"What should we do with our lunch," he asked, turning his eyes back to Peeta, was was still looking at the counter top. "A soup or a stew?"

Peeta nodded his head and shoved his hands into his pockets in a gesture of acceptance. "Soup sounds good."

Leven frowned. "You know," he suggested, "we could coat it and fry it instead, like I did when you were little. Remember when that was all you would eat for a month?"

Peeta did laugh at that, and his eyes brightened at the memory."You called it your secret recipe. I thought you made it up."

Leven scooped a bowl into the bin of breadcrumbs and held it out to Peeta. "Coated and fried?'

"Yeah," Peeta agreed, reaching out to grasp the bowl. "Sounds great."