The first thing that goes wrong is the cookies. Peeta gave me clear instructions on when to take them out of the oven before he left for the Bakery. 'They'll be done in five minutes', he said. Fifteen minutes later, I smell smoke and immediately sprint to the kitchen. I am unable to salvage the cookies, which are burnt to a crisp. I sigh deeply.

The shrill ring of the telephone startles me. I pick up it up and hold it to my ear with curiosity. We don't get many phone calls. 'Hello, Katniss, dear'.

It's Effie. I wonder if she's called to cancel her visit, as Effie seems to have a policy of not calling unless she has to. I assume she sees it as impractical.

'Hi, Effie', I reply. 'Why are you calling?'.

I hear a dramatic sigh on the other end of the phone. 'I'm sorry to say that I'll be running late', she says, and I can hear the frown in her voice.

'That's fine', I tell her, relieved. This gives me more time to figure out what to do about the cookie situation. I hear another sigh and some indistinct muttering. I suppose that for Effie, being late for anything is unacceptable. 'Yes, well, I was having my nails done when I realized I had forgotten to collect the cake I ordered,' She huffs, annoyed with herself. 'So, I'll be about an hour and a half late.'

'Don't worry about it', I say soothingly. 'Haymitch isn't coming until 12:30-'

'Haymitch is coming?', she asks, momentarily distracted. I nod, then realize she can't see me. 'Yeah.' I confirm. 'If he's not drunk, that is.' Effie makes a disgruntled noise, no doubt remembering Haymitch's love for alcohol. 'I'd better go', she says. 'I'll see you soon, Katniss'.

I tell her goodbye and remind her again not to worry about being late. When I hear the click that means we're disconnected, I return the phone to its cradle.

According to the clock, it's 11:00, which means I have an only an hour and a half to sort out something to replace the cookies and get ready. Suddenly I find myself grateful that we can never rely on Haymitch to be on time. I ponder calling Peeta, because if I'm honest, I have no idea how to make cookies, but I don't want to take him away from work when he's already leaving early.

Sighing again, I head into the kitchen. Cookies can't be too hard to make, right?

I sift through the cupboard and find a jar of flour, sugar and baking powder. I set them on the counter and turn to the fridge. Amongst all the leftovers of dinners Peeta has made, I find a carton of eggs and a block of butter.

I figure that I should mix the dry ingredients first. That's what I've seen Peeta do whenever he bakes. I carefully measure a cup of flour and a cup of sugar and pour them into a bowl. Then come the butter and eggs. I add them into the mixture and stir it until it is relatively smooth. There are still some lumps, but it'll have to do.

When the cookies are finally in the oven, I relax a little. Peeta should be home soon. I hang around in the kitchen for a while, cleaning the few utensils I used as I wait to for the cookies to be done. When the oven dings, I cautiously remove the tray with oven gloves and set it on the countertop. The cookies aren't particularly golden brown, but at least they're not burnt.

As I've only got an hour and a half- now an hour, I decide I should get ready. I go upstairs to Peeta and I's room and change into the outfit I'd chosen earlier- a green dress and matching shoes which I consider to be high heels, although they're at least two inches shorter than the ones Effie used to wear on a regular basis.

Out of habit, I start to do my hair in its usual braid, but I stop myself. For some reason, it doesn't feel right. It reminds me of how it was my signature hairstyle before the rebellion, when life was normal and my sister was still alive.

The sound of keys in the door sends me flying down the stairs and into Peeta's surprised arms. 'Katniss? Are you alright?', he asks immediately, the concern palpable in his voice. I look up into his worried blue eyes and feel guilty.

'Yeah. I'm fine', I say with a smile that feels forced. 'I'm just happy you're back.'

He returns my smile, but I know he doesn't believe me. Surprisingly, he doesn't push the topic. Instead, he compliments me on my dress and tells me that Haymitch will be late.

I roll my eyes. 'What's the excuse this time? Journey too far for him?'

He grins. 'Something like that.'

When Haymitch finally does grace us with his presence, he's an hour later than he'd told us he would be, and completely drunk. Peeta opens the door for him and Haymitch staggers through the threshold, waving a nearly empty bottle of liquor in his hand.

'Am I late?', he says, taking a heavy swig of alcohol. I reach out and extract the bottle from grasp, ignoring his protests.

'Yes, Haymitch. You're late.' I hiss, tossing the bottle into the rubbish with a loud thud. He frowns, eyebrows knitting together. 'Makes sense. I don't have a watch', he slurs, collapsing into an armchair.

I have to curl my hands into firsts to keep from slapping him. 'Why did you bother coming?', I ask icily. He looks wounded, which makes me wonder if he's actually as drunk as he appears. He doesn't answer, so I just glare at him. I bite my lip, hard, because I know if I open my mouth, I'll start shouting. My anger amuses him, apparently, because the hurt expression disappears off his face and is replaced with a smirk.

'Well, sweetheart, I apologize for ruining your special day', he says sarcastically.

That's it. I slap Haymitch hard across the face and scream at him until Peeta pulls me away. Haymitch doesn't, surprisingly, look angry. Instead he looks at me with a strange expression on his face.

'Welcome back, sweetheart'

I stare. For Haymitch to be so calm after being slapped in the face is unheard of. Even besides the fact that he's drunk, Haymitch has, like me, never had a particularly long temper.

'What?', I question disbelievingly, shaking my head. I'm so shocked that I have to sink into the armchair beside Haymitch.

'I said welcome back, sweetheart', he repeats., raising his eyebrows. In my peripheral vision, I see Peeta excuse himself from the room, but I'm too confused to focus on him. Haymitch watches Peeta leave the room, before glancing back at me.

'I don't get it. You should be beating me up by now,' I point out and Haymitch laughs.

'I'm not drunk', he explains. I lean in and smell liquor. I narrow my eyes.

'I'm not that drunk', he amends and I nod. 'I just wanted to wind you up and see what your reaction would be.'

I stand, and cross my arms. 'And why would you do that?' I ask coldly. I can feel the anger rising within me once again.

The smile leaves Haymitch's face and his eyes drop to the ground.

'I don't know. I wanted to see how much you'd changed..' He shakes his head as if to clear it. This is the first time I've seen Haymitch look so vulnerable. Already, my anger is fading away as quickly as it had come.

His eyes flicker back up to me. 'I'm sorry-', he begins, but I interrupt him by leaning down and wrapping him in a hug. I'll be the first one to say that I'm usually not one for showing affection, but sometimes there are exceptions, this being one of them.

'So, what is your conclusion?' I ask as I pull away. 'Have I changed?"

He lets out a bark of laughter. 'Sort of. The slapping thing was definitely you, but the hugging was new.' He pauses. 'You have changed. We all have. But.. maybe that's not always a bad thing'.

I feel my lips pull upwards into a smile. 'Thanks, Haymitch.' Expressions of sentiment may be few and far between from Haymitch, but I still appreciate it them, however rare.

At that moment, Peeta sticks his head around the door to announce that Effie is almost here. I beckon Haymitch and together, we go to stand at the door in anticipation. My eyes flicker between the two faces in front of me, and it occurs to me how much they've done for me and how grateful I am for it.

Together, we form a group of people who are undeniably messed up. With my frequent nightmares, Peeta's flashbacks and Haymitch's dependance on alcohol, we're more than a little dysfunctional.

But, in a strange way, we are also linked in a different way, one that binds us together rather than separating us.

We're a family.