Writer's note: Yeah, so. First off, hearty thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, etc. the first part.

You got me. I write one-shots and if at all I say I might write a follow-up, I'll admit I do take time doing it. I'm just like that so sorry about taking so long to put this up. TBH I'm very bad at multi-part fics and rarely write them.

Originally, I was going to jump to the wedding but then I had an idea to write this follow-up, which doesn't even have Peeta in it. I may write a scene where Katniss gives Peeta her answer or I may not, really it depends on my mood so apologies if this isn't the follow up you were hoping for. But one day, maybe, I might write a follow-up I've tentatively titled 'Old-Fashioned Wedding.' Time allowing.

Enough of my blathering, on with the show. Once again, thanks, feedback is welcome, even more so than silent favoriting without any comments.

Summary: Peeta proposes to Katniss. Katniss needs to talk about it. And who better to talk with than a lovably cranky drunk of a mentor?

"Haymitch, open the door!" My hands were already bruised from banging on the door for the past few minutes. Damn it, he must've passed out again. "I have to talk to you!"

Before I could raise my fist again, the door swung open, Haymitch glaring through bleary eyes, obviously groggy and hungover. "Hey, take it easy, sweetheart, I'm not deaf!"

Raising one hand in front of his eyes to shield them from the sunlight, he gestured me to come in. "What the hell is it that you have to wake me up out of my fine beauty sleep so early in the morning?"

"It's almost noon." I stalked past him into the living room.

"Well, early for me," he muttered in annoyance, closed the door, collapsing on the nearest couch. "Can I get you something? Water? Coffee? Sedatives?" He didn't even bother to look up as he carefully broke the seal off a new bottle of vodka.

Other people got scholars and leaders for their mentors. I got the district's crabbiest drunk.

"Peeta proposed to me today."

His hand froze on the bottle. "Ah. Okay. So the poor sucker for punishment actually went through with it, did he?"

I glowered at him. "You knew about this?"

"Well, of course I knew about it, he's been planning it for months, the poor sod." Haymitch set the bottle down.

"That's the great thing about you kids," he continued sarcastically, "so many years after the games are over I still gotta deal with your damn lovey-dovey drama. No wonder I still drink."

"Like you'd ever give it up anyway."

"Well, I'd at least consider it if it weren't for you two."

"Yeah, for a whole ten seconds."

He pointed a bottle opener at me. "So what the hell are you doing here talking to me? I'm not your mother. Or your fiancé to be or doormat or whatever you call him now."

It was a cheap shot since Haymitch knew about my relationship with my mother and certainly the doormat comment stung but I had too much on my mind to care. "I told him I'd think about it."

Haymitch reached for the bottle again, muttering to himself like I wasn't there. "Write it on a cake, he said. He couldn't just ask like normal kids, no, he has to make a grand gesture."

He shook his head dramatically, pouring the vodka. "But you kids were never normal, were you?"

"Are you going to keep ranting on or are you going to help me?"

"What do you want my help for? This can only go two ways. It's pretty much a yes or no answer we're dealing with here."

He let out a loud belch as I winced.

"Either you say yes and subject the poor boy to your sullenness for the rest of your lives, or you say no and stomp all over his heart. Again."

I gritted my teeth, trying with every fiber of my being to resist launching myself at him and throttling him.

And yet, it wasn't entirely like everything he was saying didn't have a grain of truth to it.

Maybe even more than a grain.

"I…I don't know what to do," I said. "I just don't know if I'm, I mean, if we're –"

"…Ready?"

"Yeah, something like that, I guess."

"To live together and cook each other dinner and bake and hunt and pop out little Peetas and Katnisses to chase after?"

I blanched. "Kids? Peeta and me?" I croaked.

"Well, yeah, if he's like most guys, I'm sure he'll want at least one. Maybe even two. I told him to have boys so they're less likely to be like you."

I scowled. I should've just brought my bow and shot him.

Haymitch's face looked knowing as he softened his voice. "He does know you don't want kids, right?" Haymitch's eyes narrowed. "I mean, you still don't, do you?"

"I – I don't know. We've never really talked about it."

We fell silent for a few moments.

"The games are over, you know." Haymitch piped in quietly.

"I know."

"So…"

"But everything else isn't over."

More silence as we both sat pondering this comment.

Of course it was true that the Hunger Games were over for good. That my once-fears of sending off my own children to be killed were no longer there.

Now there were new fears. New scars, both physical and emotional. Peeta's hijacking flashbacks. His missing leg. My nightmares.

Our friends and family dead. Finnick, Cinna, Madge, Rue, Prim.

We might be gone from the arena, but the arena would never really be gone from us.

I looked up to realize Haymitch was studying me. For some reason, I didn't look away from his searching eyes. "What do you think I should do?" I said, asking him more out of curiosity than anything else.

Haymitch slowly screwed the cap back onto the bottle. "You know I can't really tell you what to do."

"I know. But I just want to know what you think."

"You know what I think already. You know what I know already." I had never heard Haymitch's voice sound so resolutely firm. "It's the same thing I told you since day one. Which is that that boy will never leave you. It doesn't matter to him how hard it gets or how much it hurts or the nightmares or the hijack memories, you know, you just know, that that boy would follow you to the ends of the earth. And then some."

"Yes," I whispered. "But what about the – the other boy?"

Haymitch looked genuinely puzzled. "Other boy?"

"…The one with the flashbacks."

"Ah."

"Yes."

Haymitch frowned thoughtfully. I noticed he wasn't even reaching for the bottle anymore. Definitely a serious talk.

"Does he – I mean has he – been having a lot of, um, episodes lately?" Haymitch's voice was surprisingly gentle.

"Actually, no," I admitted. "I even think they're getting fewer as time goes on. Sometimes it seems like it anyway."

"Hmm."

"Mmm."

"…But you're still worried?"

I shifted uncomfortably. "I think I always will. I don't know if it'll all ever really leave me. Leave us. Any of us. The games, the fighting, the people who died, the uprising or the fighting or the hijacking or any of it. I still have the nightmares."

"But you'll keep living with it anyway because you have to," said Haymitch very calmly.

"Yes."

"So that's it, really, isn't it, sweetheart?" he continued rhetorically, not an ounce or derision or even sarcasm in his voice. "I mean, either you live with all of it by yourself – or you have the boy with the bread who worships you, live with it with you. Which is what he's asking you to do. Because for who knows what reason, he loves you more than life itself. And you love him, too. At least I think you still do. And that other boy is not the boy with the bread, is he? He's a stranger who comes for a few seconds every once in a while until you call Peeta, your Peeta, back to you. That boy isn't here to stay. Peeta's here to stay. Because Peeta, your Peeta, would never, ever leave you."

"…I never thought of it that way," I said slowly.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure it's hard to think with all the grumpiness running around in your brain."

And the sarcastic drunk was back.

Just as well though since I didn't need to talk any more. I got up.

Noticing my new resolve, Haymitch fixed a knowing look on his face. Or was it smug? At any rate, it was irritating.

"So when's the wedding?"

"Behave yourself," I retorted. "Or you're not invited. We may not even tell you when it is."

Haymitch snorted, smiling as he stood up. "Yeah, fat chance of that, sweetheart. You have no idea what the boy has planned for you. He wants a – what did he call it? – real, old-fashioned wedding." Haymitch grinned mischievously as he walked me to the door.

I frowned. "A what? What the hell does that mean?"

Haymitch kept grinning. "Well, I guess we'll find out, won't we? Now go straight to him and tell him yes, make the boy's lifelong dream come true, go on...too bad he couldn't have dreamed of getting a pony like normal boys."

"You know sometimes you're almost better drunk, don't you?"

"Does that mean I get to bring this?" Haymitch pulled his usual flask out of his pants pocket. I just shook my head.

Haymitch feigned a pout. "Okay, fine, but there'd better be refreshments at this damn wedding."

"I'll see you later. Try to stay sober for at least another hour."

"I'll do that, sweetheart. And you try not to bite anyone's head off for at least another ten minutes." Trying not to roll my eyes again, I stepped out the door.

"Oh, and Katniss?"

"Hmm?"

"Congratulations."

Finally an actual, sincere word from Haymitch Abernathy. I felt almost touched. "Thanks, Haymitch."

"That's to you. I have a different message for Peeta."

"Which is?"

Haymitch flashed me a wicked grin. "My condolences."