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K. POV

It's noon when I return to the room. I gingerly close the door, careful not to wake him, and sit in a wicker chair that's been pushed up next to the bed. For the first time today, or ever really, we are alone.

He's propped up by pillows, bandaged, and dressed in one of Haymitch's white dress shirts, which hangs loose on him. Cleaned up, he looks better than before. The color has returned to his face and he's relaxed, not tensed up from the pain. Mother said that he's got mild heat exhaustion, bruised ribs, and a badly infected cut but he'll live. I don't know what he's been through or how many miles he wandered before Gale found him, but at the moment he rests soundly, aided by a sedative.

A muffled din trickles from the kitchen, snatching up my attention. I recall the flash of discomfort in Prim's eyes when I said that I would watch him while she helped mother clean up after breakfast. It still stings and I'm determined to be on my best behavior. To prove it to myself, I take a small towel and soak it in a basin of ice water sitting on the nightstand. As I wring it, the excess drops ping noisily on the water's surface like rain.

It reminds me of sickness, more specifically, when I was younger; when medicine was too expensive to afford and the supply of home remedies dried up. Sometimes it was all we had; something cold to soothe a hot brow and the gentle motion of fingers combing through hair. It was enough. The constant vigilance of my parents at my bedside throughout the night, trying to draw out the fever and whispering reassurances had always resonated in me as a simple and unwavering act of tenderness. But when I think about the last time I did this for someone, the sound becomes poisoned. This isn't the first time it's happened. Nowadays, the smallest thought and the most innocuous detail can send me flashing back.

The details of the cave envelop me like creeping ivy: the dank, mossy tasting air, reverberating echoes, and cold hard ground. I can almost see Peeta's fever-bright eyes glimmering in the dark and feel the leaden fear coiling up in my stomach thinking he would die this way. With or without the cameras, it was real concern that kept me up all night, desperately trying to help the only way I knew how. Ending up here and going through the same motions with this particular man is a farce but I bite back any feeling of dissent. There is no affection or pity, only a hardened resolve as I place the damp cloth over his forehead.

Tentatively, I wait for him to respond; for his eyes to flicker open as they did before. When they remain motionless, I stare at his dark lashes and bruised eyelids still; mulling over what lies behind them. If I didn't recognize him, I would have went on believing that he was a stranger and cared for him with no strings attached, no buzz of conflict swarming my brain. He would have woken up and if he caught on quickly, played along. It's a tempting alternative. Ignorance is bliss and he doesn't need my emotions to muddle things up. Unlucky about those eyes, I guess.

It's strange because blue eyes aren't out of the ordinary here. In District Twelve, you either have a flinty grey or deep cornflower blue color without much variation in between. Living in my small bubble, I never realized just how broad the spectrum of colors for the human eye was. In comparison to Prim's or mother's or Peeta's, his are alien in comparison; almost electric in their incandescence. A part of me wonders if they are truly that special or if it's just my memory romanticizing them.

I first noticed him on the third day of training, when I was sent to the gymnasium to be observed individually and scored. He was with the other Gamemakers on the viewing balcony, laughing and drinking. Out of all the men there, I knew that his opinion was the most important as soon as I walked in. "Watch out for the man in black and red," Haymitch had warned me. "He's the Head. Make a good impression on him and you're set, but he has the power to destroy you in the arena if he's so inclined."

I was surprised by how young he looked next to his wrinkly, white-haired companions, so much that I thought I was mistaken. I stole another furtive glance while I retrieved my bow and arrows from the weapons stand. He certainly carried himself like he was important; all broad shoulders and pointy smiles. I felt annoyed then; here was the man who had my fate in his hands and he was nothing more but another pretentious, puffed-up Capitolian.

And then there was the stupid stunt with the apple.

There were about a dozen people up in that balcony but we immediately locked eyes. His gaze, the color of frost, scorched like hot coals. He looked dangerous in his fury; more than capable of pressing a button to kill me in a most awful way. I left with my insides in knots, sure that my demonstration had both ruined my chances for a sponsor and earned the ire of a Head Gamemaker.

And yet with all that worrying, it didn't come to that. I always thought my near-perfect score after that disaster would be a mystery for the rest of my life. It won't be for longer, though. He'll have to wake up sometime. The thought sends me sinking deeper into my chair.

During the Games, there were moments where I could almost sense his gaze on me. Though I knew he was looking through the hidden cameras just as everyone else, his subtle presence was deadly; a hidden danger ready to spring. Even now that I'm far from his domain and he's been rendered harmless, there's a residual fear there, like flinching from flames after getting burned. My skin crawls at the thought of his searing blue eyes on me once more; not filtered through glass or contained in dreams and memories, but directly. I take comfort in knowing that this anxiety won't last for long. The sooner I wash my hands clean of him, the better.

I stay like that; slouched, legs stretched out, arms draped over my stomach. As the minutes drag on, it becomes a struggle to keep my eyes open and my chin from nodding into my chest. With the chaos this morning, I haven't had the time to slow down until now. The exhaustion is hitting me all at once. Despite frayed nerves and a hazy sense of duty to keep an eye on him, the lulling sound of his cadenced breaths slowly sends me off to sleep.

The next thing I know, I'm blinking away the bright light and automatically lurching up in the chair. It was not a good position to sleep in. Parts of my body are either numb or twinging unpleasantly. I see that Prim is in the room. She's standing on the other side of the bed holding a syringe, poised to inject him. With her spun-gold hair and pink skin backlit by the afternoon sun, she looks even more angelic than usual.

"Sorry. Did I wake you?" she whispers, looking concerned.

I fumble for a coherent string of thought. "I was supposed to watch him," I mumble instead, my mouth feeling full of cotton.

"Don't worry about it. He's fine. You need your rest anyway."

He doesn't seem fine to me. His sleep is fitful; he's shivering and sweating and grimacing. I could never handle someone else's discomfort without feeling extremely discomforted but Prim is a professional. I watch as the needle punctures his skin, the clear liquid in the glass barrel dwindling down. In a matter of seconds, he crumples back like a marionette with severed strings. I feel an odd sense of relief as well.

"How long was I asleep?" I ask after she finishes taping back the bandage into place and rolling his sleeve down.

"Nearly an hour…" She pauses to fix a crease in the bedspread. Her head lifts up to look at me and there's a soft furrow there too, right between her eyebrows. "Haymitch is here."

"Oh." Now that she mentions it, I can hear his clipped, rough voice low in the background. I rub away an ache radiating in my neck. I'm nervous that she might question me on bringing him here but she doesn't.

"They were talking for a while," she says worriedly. "About him. They wouldn't let me listen. Maybe you should go out there and see what's going on."

This surprises me. Prim is far from a child. She does the work of an adult and is treated like one. I can't help but hope that they sent her away so they could quietly discuss how to dispose of him. I get up to my feet. "I'll be back," I tell her. When I leave, I avoid looking at either of them.

The hushed conversation in the dining room is put on pause as they glance up at my arrival. Haymitch's eyes are bloodshot and he looks unkempt as usual, but he manages to grin. "Mornin', sweetheart."

"Haymitch," I address stiffly. I take a seat at the head of the table, between him and my mother. The way they look at me, I feel like I'm about to be lectured on something.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" mother asks finally. "I just brewed a pot."

I nod. Once she's disappeared into the kitchen, I turn to Haymitch. "So, you've been informed?" It comes out blunter than I intended but now is not the time to beat around the bush.

"That the Head Gamemaker of the 74th Games is currently wearing my clothes and sleeping in your guest bedroom? Yes. Unless there's anything else I should know," he says wryly.

I let out a dry sound, in between a scoff and a chuckle and the tension eases a notch. Leave it to Haymitch to be completely blasé at a time like this. "Consider yourself informed."

"As much as I appreciate being in the loop of things, I'm curious to know why you called me here," he remarks, looking into his mug with a bit of distaste. I imagine he's wishing for something a lot stronger than tea. "I'm not exactly qualified to be a nurse if that's what you're thinking."

"No. Things are... taken care of at the moment." I can't help myself; I cast a side-long glance behind me at the room where he's resting and wonder if Prim is listening in. I continue on tenuously. "It's after he's done healing. We need to figure out what to do with him, and soon."

"Eager to get rid of him?"

"Do you blame me?" I sit back in the chair and frown. "This is serious. The longer he stays here, the more of a liability he becomes. Given who he is, it's not like he's welcome here in the first place."

He stares at me for a second and then shakes his head. "There are worse men than Crane."

Mother returns with a cup of steaming hot tea and places it before me. Even though my mouth is still dry, I can't seem to find the energy to drink from it. Never would I have thought that Haymitch; grumpy, incorrigible, indifferent Haymitch of all people, would come to a Gamemaker's defense. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs in a matter-of-fact way. "Trust me sweetheart, he's not as bad as you make him out to be. With what's going on, it wouldn't be wise to jump the gun on..."

"There are limits," I interject. "I've done as much as I can. I don't owe him anything."

"You forget, it was his decision to change the rules and let you and Peeta win together."

My hands curl into fists but I keep them planted on the table. "You forget, there was only one winner in the end. If Peeta had survived, do you really think he would have kept his promise?"

Haymitch smirks, as if the answer is obvious and I'm too dumb to see it. "He's here for a reason, isn't he?"

"Don't do that." My voice is little more than a growl but I assumed just as much. The last thing I need is to feel sorry for Seneca Crane and have him on my conscience, already weighed down by so many others. "We're in enough trouble saving his life. What do you think the Capitol will do if they find out that we're harboring a fugitive? Someone they thought was already put to death?"

My mother looks alarmed, as if the thought never crossed her mind. "Is that true? Are we in great danger?"

"Yes and no." He gives me a look. "Katniss is right. There are higher-ups out there who would be none too pleased. As of now, however, Crane is believed to be disposed of. It should stay that way. If we're too hasty and careless, the whole thing will unravel and we'll all be worse off. A few months of lying low here, where he's not recognized, and he's as good as forgotten."

I feel myself seething but keep my tone measured. "You say that we should keep him safe here but what will we do with him once the intrigue dies down?"

"Someone like him must have connections outside of the Capitol," mother suggests quietly. "Perhaps we can arrange something?"

"Don't tell me he's gotten to you already." I look at her, incredulous, and wonder what things Haymitch filled her head with while I was out. "You're willing to lay down your life, all our lives, for some stranger?"

The indecision on her face is visible. For a passing moment, I'm almost certain she'll back down but she surprises me, however meek her protest is. "Like Haymitch said, he tried to help you and he was punished for it." Her fingers twine and untwine together, a nervous habit that Prim also shares. "We can't just kick him out," she says. "It isn't right."

But Haymitch waves his hand at her words, as if he's had a change of heart and is shooing away any opposition. "Fine, then. You win. You hardly need my blessing to do what you will with him, sweetheart. You want options? Here they are." He begins to tick them off his fingers one by one. "Dump him back in the woods and forget this ever happened. Send him on his merry way to the Capitol so that they can get the job done right. Reveal his identity to the entire District and turn him over to an angry mob. The choice is yours."

I hate a lot of things, but Haymitch being right is up there on top of the list.

With gritted teeth, I stare hard at the wood grain patterns in the table. As outlandishly horrible as the options are, it's true. Nothing else viable comes to mind. Nothing else would preserve his life or my humanity. Nothing else would keep Prim's heart from breaking. There's only that one thing. It's not the most practical option. In fact it's downright deadly with both the Capitol and my own District out for his blood. Not to mention living under the same roof with the one person who embodies everything I'm trying to run away from is too awful to even fathom.

But as completely absurd it is, with all the logic to refute it and knowledge of the misery to come, something inside me relents; a hidden scrap of pity that I can't ignore. I wonder if it was the same for Seneca Crane when he decided to change the rules of the game and effectively seal his fate. Isn't that how it goes? An eye for an eye. A life for a life. A stupid decision for a stupid decision.

"Then he stays. For now." The words come up bitter but I feel better after saying it, like being purged of bile. It's only when I'm halfway back to the guest room that I realize I was quick to fold; ready to be convinced. I'm tired of the guilt. This could be atonement for everything I've done. Maybe instead of destroying a life, I can save one.

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A/n: Apologies for the delay! I was sick for a few days and didn't get to write, so here's an extra long update to compensate.

I'm sorry if this chapter felt a bit too introspective and meandering, but I needed to explore some more issues to set the ground work for the upcoming action. I also thought the rationalizing in keeping him hidden in their home needed to be dealt with before anything else happened. It was a bit sticky trying to keep the argument convincing so I hope it made sense. In any case, the story will most definitely pick up in the next chapter.

Thank you to those who reviewed! I appreciate any sort of feedback from readers. :)

-Chiisana inori