Author's Notes: Hey everyone! Thanks to those of you who have reviewed/favorite and just read my story! I hope you like it so far. Please do take a moment to leave a review if you read it, I'd like to know whether it's something people think I should continue with or not! A big thank you to my beta reader, April93 for her editing skills, and her patience with answering my questions. Until next time!

*Disclaimer* I am not Suzanne Collins. I am not making any money from this story, nor do I want to. I'm just borrowing her characters and the world in which they live. I don't own anyone or anything; this is a work of fiction and should be regarded as such. Passages from the Hunger Games trilogy are property of Suzanne Collins, not me. They are used for entertainment purposes and to give a time/place/setting to the forthcoming chapter.

-*-*-*-*-*-*Chapter Two*-*-*-*-*-*-

It's the morning after Buttercup's re-appearance, and I'm exhausted. It's not the kind of tired that sleep can cure. It's that bone-deep, emotional fatigue that makes it hard to move, to think, to feel. I know I look even more pale than usual. I manage to make it downstairs, though. It doesn't take that long to take care of Buttercup's injuries, though those mewling sounds he makes as I dig the thorn from his paw has me feeling more sympathetic towards him than I ever thought possible.

Talking to my mother on the phone after reading her letter lifts a weight from my chest I hadn't been aware of. We don't talk much, actually. We do more weeping than anything, but it feels…good, almost. To finally have her there, mentally and emotionally, to lean on. We've finally gotten to a point in our relationship, it seems, where we can rely on one another. Well, at least I can rely on her from a distance. I'm not so sure she can always rely on me. I'm self-aware enough to know that there are days where my mind feels like it's unreachable, even to me. A lot of days where my self-awareness, or awareness of my surroundings or time itself, is minimal at best.

While I do feel a bit better, a bit lighter, crying and grieving with my mother has only added to the intense exhaustion that has overcome me. I'm hardly aware of my surroundings as Buttercup sits next to me on the sofa, his side warm as it rests against me. His purr is so soft that I don't notice it at first, and I'm vaguely surprised that he's here, pressed against me, so close. I understand the unspoken bond that's been forged between us, though, and I'm grateful for it. For him.

I'm still sitting on the sofa, Buttercup keeping watch beside me, when Peeta and Greasy Sae come in through the front door. He's carrying a loaf of bread that smells delicious. In her hands are makings for breakfast. I don't follow them into the kitchen, though, or even get up. I listen to the sounds of movement in the next room. There's a quiet exchange and then Peeta is approaching me, his hand held out in offering. Buttercup's ears flatten against his head and he hisses. I laugh suddenly because it strikes me as funny that this cat, this miserable creature who'd always hated me, is now acting protectively towards me. It just goes to show how much things can change, I suppose.

I look up at Peeta and the look of bewilderment on his face is enough to make me laugh again. I'm still grinning a bit when I finally accept his hand, allowing him to pull me to my feet. I stumble a bit, my exhaustion weighing me down, but he's there to catch me. His arm slides around my waist instantly, keeping me from falling. I'm not prepared for that closeness, but I cling to him anyway. The remnants of my smile slip from my face but I don't pull away, so his arm remains there, warm and solid around me as he leads me into the kitchen. Buttercup is still complaining loudly, though perhaps now it's more out of protest that he no longer had a warm body to press against. He must realize that his protests are being ignored because he hops down from the sofa and follows us into the kitchen.

"I haven't heard you laugh in a long time," Peeta says, gently depositing me in a chair at the kitchen table.

"I haven't had much of a reason to," I respond, shrugging. A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "Though, the look on your face when I did was priceless."

It's his turn to laugh and it's such a good sound that I can't help but feel the joy radiating from it. Suddenly the kitchen feels like a warmer place. There's a fleeting sense that, even just for a moment, that something is right with the world. That there is still hope, still a chance for things to be good, a chance for happiness. It fills me with warmth long after it tapers off and I can't help but watch him. He's thin, yes, and his scars, like mine, are painful reminders, but he's carrying himself like…well, like the old Peeta. I don't know what they did at the Capitol, but whatever it was must have helped a great deal. He's not the same person who I had parted with on the streets of the Capitol, before the end of it all.

"Any game?" Greasy Sae asks as she moves about the kitchen, making us breakfast. It takes a few moments to realize to what she's referring and I shake my head. My feeble attempt at hunting the day before. "Ah, well. There'll be plenty of time for that, I expect." She takes my failure in stride and if she's disappointed, she doesn't show it.

It isn't long before the three of us are sitting around the table, eating a delicious breakfast of eggs, bacon, mash, and thick slices of soft, warm bread with a bit of goat cheese spread over it. I feed Buttercup my bacon and he sits at my feet, his tail swishing happily as he eats the fatty strips.

"Now, see, I didn't make all this just for you to feed it to that miserable creature," Greasy Sae reprimands me, but her words lack any real bite.

"He's fur and bones. He needs it more than I do," I say simply, and Buttercup gives one of his kitten mews for good effect. Greasy Sae makes a 'humph' noise at the back of her throat but goes back to her own meal. And there it is, a pleased little smile on her weathered face that lets me know she approves.

I help myself to a second slice of Peeta's bread, slathering on a thick layer of goat cheese before biting into it. We eat in silence for several minutes and I wonder vaguely where Haymitch is. No, no need to wonder. It's still morning, I'm sure he's passed out somewhere in his house. His own kitchen table, maybe. Knowing him, he probably doesn't make it to his bed that often. I frown slightly as I remember something.

"Peeta, were you here last night?" I ask, shifting slightly in my chair to face him. "I fell asleep down here, but I woke up in my bed." I try not to make it sound accusatory, and I'm not really angry, I just want to know. I find myself surprised that I have no memory of how I got from the living room to my bed, and that I hadn't even thought about it until now.

"Yes," He admits, after a few moments of hesitation. "It wasn't that late, I didn't think you'd be asleep. I was bringing in firewood when I saw you lying there. At first I thought you were de-" He stops mid-word and a look of panic, of fear, of pain flickers briefly over his features. He clears his throat, blue eyes going from my face, to the remaining food on his plate, back up to me. "I was worried. You seemed to be all right, but you wouldn't wake up so I carried you upstairs and put you to bed. I, uh, I stayed with you for a while. Just to make sure you were okay."

"Oh." I answer, not sure what else to say. The thought of him doing that for me, of not only carrying me upstairs and tucking me into bed, but staying with me, brings back a lot of memories. A lot of nights where the only thing that could chase away my nightmares was the strength of his arms, the comfort of his voice. I realize that I miss it. It's been a long time since I've had that, and I miss it.

"I didn't have any nightmares last night," I tell him, and I think he knows that's my way of saying 'thank you' because he smiles in relief. I don't know, maybe he's just glad I'm not angry with him, or weirded out that he stayed with me. I think it's sweet, really. "Did Buttercup hiss at you?" I ask, remembering how I woke up some time during the night; Buttercup had been crouched beside me, keeping watch as I slept.

"No, but he nearly made me trip and drop you," Peeta tells me with a little shake of his head. "I was carrying you up the stairs and he kept weaving around my legs, like he wanted me to fall or something. It'd be bad enough without having a clunky fake leg." It's the first time he's really complained much about having an artificial leg, at least around me. He'd never really been much of a complainer. "Anyway. I just didn't want to drop you," He finishes earnestly.

"You didn't drop me, Peeta," I reassure him, and I'm rewarded with a small smile. By this time Greasy Sae has finished eating and is clearing away dishes, washing them as quietly as she can in the sink so that we can speak in relative privacy. "I'm glad you're back," I add in a much quieter voice. His expression turns to one of surprise and then he's smiling.

"Me, too."