Spoilers: Mostly movie goodness with some book details thrown in. Notes on what comes from where are at the end of the chapter. Enjoy the geek-out moment I have... if you dare.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, but I love it anyway.

Theme music: "Headlock" by Imogene Heap


Notes from Manny:

This was the first thing I wrote when I started this fic. I asked myself, "What if Katniss had stopped and THOUGHT about what it would mean for her to win the games? What if Peeta's friendship had already made a difference? What is she'd bought a clue?" So, that's the scoop. Enjoy.


The Window Seat (Katniss POV)


I should be furious with him. I want to be furious.

I'm not. And I don't like it.

I honestly don't know what to think… except that I think I miss him. Even though we haven't spoken of that day in the rain, I don't resent him anymore. I'm not sure that I ever did. What I'd hated was owing him.

So why hadn't I ever paid him back? I could have squared the debt. Why hadn't I?

I have no idea.

But I do know that it's not his fault that I still owe him for the bread. It's mine.

Why couldn't I face him? Why couldn't I pay him back?

You were too ashamed to even look him in the eye.

So that's it. I hated that I'd been so vulnerable in the first place. I guess, all these years, I've been hating myself. Not him. Never him.

I roll over onto my side in the too big, too soft, too empty bed and sigh, irritated at myself. I feel shaken. I need to find my balance.

I've never been the kind of person who trusts easily, who makes friends quickly. I'm really not. I'm not like that at all. Except with Cinna… and Peeta. It makes no sense that Peeta and I had suddenly become friends. None of this makes any sense: the minute I'd let myself relax in his presence, I'd been drawn in. Why is he an exception? I don't understand.

I'd really been starting to like Peeta before he'd asked Haymitch to coach us separately. The betrayal had been sudden and stomach-numbingly hot. Swift. Surprising.

But now, I think Haymitch could be right: Peeta had just been trying to help. And everyone knows how much I hate it when people do me favors. Peeta has known me for years, so he must have guessed what the cost of this favor would be… but he'd done it anyway. And what had I done? Shoved him. Yelled at him.

I'm no better than his mother.

I remember the look in Peeta's eyes when he'd spoken of her:

"She said District Twelve might finally have a winner."

"Wanna trade?"

"She's all right so long as you don't screw up."

I bite the inside of my cheek. I've never really thought about it, but that day five years ago… that couldn't have been the first time Mrs. Mellark had hit Peeta, and it probably hadn't been the last.

What's worse is I hadn't even thanked him. Nor had he ever cornered me and demanded it. He'd helped me and never asked for a single thing in return. For years, I'd believed that he'd made me owe him, but that's not true and I can't lie to myself anymore.

"There's this one girl I've had a crush on for as long as I can remember."

I still can't believe it's me, but if it is, it kind of makes sense. I don't want it to make sense. Not like that. If he'd wanted a polite thank-you, I could have obliged. If he'd wanted wild game – rabbits or a turkey – I could have left them on his doorstep. He hadn't. He'd helped me because he likes me, so doesn't that mean I have to like him back? To reciprocate?

No wonder I've always felt uncomfortable around Peeta Mellark.

With a heavy sigh, I roll out of bed. It's useless trying to sleep. Maybe if I walk around for a while, I'll burn through these thoughts and be able to curl up on the sofa downstairs and get some rest, at least. I know I'm going to need it. They're sending us into the arena tomorrow.

I move silently as I leave my room, pausing to glance in the direction of Peeta's. My throat suddenly locks down and my chest aches. I don't want to go into the Games without having spoken to him one more time. I don't want my last words to him to be angry ones.

But what would I say?

I have no idea.

Maybe a walk first, then.

I descend the stairs, pausing midway when I see a figure seated on the wide ledge beneath the massive windows lining the living room wall.

I guess he couldn't sleep, either.

And now I really need to figure out what I'm going to say to him. I cross the room, bracing myself. As soon as he sees me, he'll tense. His expression will close. He won't want to talk to me after what I said, after how I shoved him.

I hesitate.

He looks up and… he smiles. "Oh. Hey," he says, as if the last day and a half never happened.

"Hi," I whisper, crossing my arms and shuffling a bit closer. I know the next move is mine and I won't make the same mistake again. I owe him something. "I'm sorry I… went after you earlier."

He doesn't tell me it's okay. He watches me through his lashes – boys aren't supposed to have such long lashes, are they? – and tells me with a soft smile, "You know I meant that as a compliment."

"I know." And I do. I didn't know Peeta Mellark of District Twelve, but I know this Peeta. Peeta Mellark, the Hunger Games Tribute. I know this boy.

I slide onto the ledge opposite him, wrapping my arms around my knees, and study his profile as he looks out the window. I gradually become aware of the roar of the crowd from the lighted square below. "Listen to them," I remark, disgusted.

"I just don't want them to change me."

My chin jerks up. Peeta glances at me and I feel like such a fool. I can tell he hasn't been spending the last two hours feeling sorry for himself. Not like me. "How would they change you?"

He shrugs, gazing out into the darkness. I wonder whether he's thinking of the ongoing celebrations in the Capitol or the distant hills of District Twelve. "I don't know. I just don't want them to turn me into something I'm not. I've tried to be someone I'm not for a long time," he admits.

"You have?"

He nods. "But I think… I think I get it now." He tucks his chin down. It makes his smile go crooked. "Great timing, huh? I figure it out after I've been Reaped. Nothing left to lose, I guess."

I don't have a reply to that.

"I just wish I could think of a way to show them that they don't own me. That I'm not just another piece in their game." His gaze slides in my direction and my heart stutters like I've been caught. "If I'm gonna die, I wanna still be me. Does that make sense?"

"About as much sense as…" I trail off, surprised and slightly sickened by the path my thoughts have taken.

"What?" he presses. Of course. Of course he would insist on hearing the rest of it. This is Peeta – during the Tribute Parade, he'd so cleverly played the audience and insistently drawn me into it; during training he'd spent nearly two hours getting the camouflage on my forearm just right; during his interview, he'd determinedly powered through the flicker of bowel-loosening fear that had passed over his face just to reveal the identity of the girl he's liked for so long. Humiliating himself just to help me. If I've learned anything about him in the last four days, it's that he doesn't do things by halves. He doesn't let others get away with not finishing things, either.

And then I think of all the years he spent not speaking to me back in Twelve and my thoughts fracture around that one uncontestable point.

"It makes about as much sense as what?" he repeats and I have to admit that whatever had been holding him back has finally lost its grip on him. Somewhere along the way, his quiet curiosity has turned to outspoken courage.

I clear my throat. "Volunteering," I choke out.

He leans his head back against the wall and gives me a small, knowing grin. I wiggle my toes in the space between us on the window seat. It's either that or watch them curl for no reason at all.

"That's just what I mean," he whispers. He shakes his head and I realize that his smile is admiring now and it's still focused on me. "No matter what happens, you've already outmaneuvered them, in a way."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"Katniss," he says softly but with urgency, "you're going to win this thing. It's going to be you."

I shake my head in disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

He gives me a long, somber look. "I want you to go home. To your sister."

"More than you want to live? That's just…" I have no words for how ridiculous that sounds. "Peeta—"

"She needs you more than my family needs me."

Why is he so stubborn? Why does he insist on giving and giving and giving to me? I don't want to take it. I turn away and, as I gaze out at the city lights, I glimpse the reflection of his profile in the glass and I wonder… Could I do it? I'd promised Prim I'd come back, but…

I stop and I think about the task ahead of me in the arena. I stop and think about killing, helping to kill, or standing back and waiting for the death of each and every kid that I'd seen on stage tonight. I might not be all that sad to see Cato go, but what about the tributes like little Rue from Eleven? Even if I manage to be the victor of these Games, will I still be me? I'll go home a murderer, for killing is killing, either by action or inaction. I study Peeta's reflection, watching him watch me. I think about my return. I think about Peeta's funeral.

No.

"I can't do this," I realize.

"Don't be ridiculous," Peeta replies. "You're a hunter. It's no different than—"

I should have slugged Gale when he'd said those very same words. They are not comforting. They are demeaning, dehumanizing. Unforgivably inhumane. I may not be good with people but, damn it, I am not a monster. "It is different," I hiss, my fingers digging into the flesh around my knees. "I can't go in there hoping you'll die. Expecting… letting you die."

He blinks once. He swallows audibly. His lips part and I hear him breathe my name out in question. If not for the hope in his eyes, I wouldn't have known what he was asking at all.

But I think I do.

"Would you lie to get sponsors?"

He frowns. "I might."

"Did you?" That's as close as I can come to asking if he'd meant what he'd said in his interview with Caesar a few hours ago.

What follows is not the longest moment of silence I've ever experienced in my life, but it ranks in the top five. Eventually, Peeta shakes his head. "I didn't lie. I meant what I said."

Shit. I don't know what to do or think…

He draws another breath. "And Haymitch is right. If you can use it to get sponsors, you should. I'll help you whenever I can. Maybe I can lead the others off your trail if I—"

"Stop," I gasp. I can't listen to him talk like this.

He looks horrified and sad and utterly dejected. As if I've somehow turned down more than just his unwanted and unsolicited help. "One of us should go home."

An idea flickers to life and I recklessly grab ahold of it. I know I might be walking right into a very clever trap – and Peeta is clever and charming and dangerously likeable – but I can't not promise, "No, both of us should go home."

Thanks to Peeta's confession, any other strategy is now impossible.

I press, "You've made us both unforgettable. If I go home, you're coming with me, Peeta. You have to."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," I reply slowly, reaching out a hand to him. I wait until he takes it before finishing my thought, "we're a team."

"A team," he echoes, his fingers tightening around mine. "Katniss, the Gamemakers aren't going to like this."

"I don't care."

"I could be lying to you right now."

"You're not."

"How do you know?"

"I don't." But the pain and desolation that pinches his expression isn't fake and that does more to convince me than anything else.

He glances away. I watch his Adam's apple bob. The set of his jaw is stubborn. I'm not always good with coming up with the right words all on my own, so I borrow some of his. "I don't want them to change me, either." And accepting that one of us has to die, letting that happen, would change me.

"You promised Prim," he reminds me.

"And what kind of person would I be if I let something happen to you? Everyone in Twelve saw your interview, Peeta." And if I abandon him or he me, they'll never forgive us. Winning would mean losing in the worst possible way.

He closes his eyes briefly and I know that he finally gets it. "Shit. I didn't mean to…"

"I know." And I believe him.

"All I was thinking was that the interview might be my last chance to speak up and have it count for something."

I'd like to think his confession would have counted for something – perhaps even more than it currently does – if he'd made it in private. I can't see myself reacting any differently than I had earlier this evening, but maybe I would have trusted him enough, been honest with myself enough, to be better. I sigh. I guess we'll never know. "Well, it counts now," I whisper, frustrated that it has become another part of the Games. "We'd be idiots not to use it to our advantage."

He frowns. "You mean… about sponsors?"

"I think that, by sticking together, we'll have a better chance of getting sponsors. Like Haymitch said." I still don't really believe that the Gamemakers will let us both live, but I have to try. Peeta's confession demands it now.

"So, it's all an act," he intones flatly.

I sigh. God, this is confusing, but I don't let go of his hand. "If you're honest with me, I'll be honest with you, okay? Partners."

"Okay," he tells me. His voice is rough, but his grip is warm and strong. He doesn't let go. "So what's the plan tomorrow?"

I bite the inside of my cheek in thought. "I don't know. We'll need some supplies, but…"

He nods in both thought and agreement. "We can't take on the Careers at the Cornucopia."

"So, if one of us is close to a pack or some supplies, we should grab it and then turn, run, and find each other once we're under cover."

"And then we look for water."

"And then we look for water." Peeta's thumb rubs over the back of my hand, back and forth, back and forth. It's mesmerizing and soothing. I turn our strategy over and over in my mind, trying to eke out every last possible advantage. When an idea comes to me, I don't hesitate to tell him, "And you should use my training score if you get in trouble."

"What?"

"Make a deal."

"You mean if—"

"If we don't find each other before the Careers do." I keep talking, working through the plan aloud, "Tell them you lied in your interview to try to gain an edge. Tell them you stuck by me in training so you'd know what I'm good at and how to track me. Just be sure to keep the specifics in reserve or you won't be much use to them anymore."

"What are you going to tell them if they catch you?"

"They won't. Unless they're really good at climbing trees." I smile wryly at the thought.

"Right," he answers, chuckling. "You're an amazing climber." He squeezes my hand before I can throw together a reply.

I meet his gaze. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look at me like this before. I'd seen appreciation in Gale's eyes whenever I'd managed a supposedly impossible shot. I'd seen admiration in Prim's whenever I'd brought a particularly filling dinner home. This look is both of those and yet more than the combination of the two.

His thumb moves again. "If we get separated and I get caught… if that happens, I will lead them on a merry chase for as long as I can."

"And I'll be looking for you. When I find you, I'll help you, so stay alive." I know I shouldn't be making this promise. Peeta could turn on me in the arena. But this is the boy who gave me the bread that saved my life, the bread that helped me live to see another day, a day with dandelions and the reminder that spring had arrived and – with it – hope. He'd taken a beating for me that rainy day just as surely as I'm taking a chance on him now. And, if I'm wrong about him, what will it matter? Peeta could snap my neck in an instant. I'll probably be dead within seconds of figuring it out. If I ever figure it out at all. I'm shocked for the second time tonight when I realize how very much I don't want face a world where the boy with the bread becomes a villain. I don't want to even think about it.

I focus on his hand instead. His warm and steady grip. It's comfortable. I don't want to let go.

"I'm still going to do everything I can to make sure you win, Katniss."

I shake my head. "Don't. Don't promise me that."

"What should I promise?"

"Stay with me?" I propose. "No matter what."

His other hand finds my chin and tilts my face up until our gazes meet. His eyes have never looked bluer. It really is becoming my favorite color. He vows, "I'm on your side, together or apart. No matter what."

"Okay," I say just for something to say. This connection – our solemn silence – resonates, threatening to rattle me to bits. I'm relieved when he lowers his hand. "Thank you, Peeta," I say, surprising myself as much as him.

"For what?"

The words get all tangled up in my throat. There are so many things to thank him for. And there are just as many to damn him for. The Games begin tomorrow and I have to wonder if I'm the only one who's going to have trouble playing by the rules.

There can be only one victor.

No. I can't think like that. I won't.

I slide my feet off of the seat and, using my grip on his hand, pull myself close enough to press a brief kiss to his cheek. His entire body stiffens. I think he even holds his breath. His hand spasms in mine and, in the moment before I lean away, I take a breath. How can a person possibly smell of warmth and hope? I don't know. But Peeta does.

"Katniss?"

"Partners," I manage to choke out. I move back and meet his wide eyes. "I'm counting on you not to die on me." Or kill me.

He nods, looking completely dumbstruck. His fingers are still clutching mine. I'm trying to decide whether or not to mention it when he finally draws in a breath. His gaze drops to my lips.

He's not acting.

I shove that thought aside. Maybe he isn't acting. Maybe he really does… care about me that much. But the arena might change him. It might change me. I shouldn't take anything for granted, but I think I already have.

"I trust you, Katniss," he murmurs. I remain perfectly still as his other hand slowly lifts to my jaw once again. His fingers brush through my hair. And then he brings our joined hands up to his lips. He's still watching me intently and I can feel his warm breath against the back of my hand.

I am entranced. My heart pounds, but I can't move. Peeta's impossibly long eyelashes flutter as he shuts his eyes and presses a warm kiss to my skin. Of all the kisses in the world, of all the kisses that I'd known existed yet never wanted, never had any ambition to experience for myself, never daydreamed of like other girls my age, this is the one that destroys me. It is everything that Peeta is: warm, gentle, giving, genuine.

Maybe that's why I'm blindsided by it. Time stops. My stomach tightens and my lungs stop working. I suddenly notice how very warm he is and so close, closer than I'd expected. I shouldn't be this nervous. My chest shouldn't feel this tight. It's just a press of lips against the back of my hand. That's all.

Isn't it?

I feel my lips part in reaction to this simple touch. The kiss is brief and careful, but I don't pull my hand away. In fact, I rub my thumb against his. He pulls back slowly, eyes still shut, and sighs. He looks so young, so trusting. Vulnerable. I shiver.

His fingers slide deeper into my hair and my hand finds his shoulder, my fingers curling into his shirt. His muscles are hard. I was right about him being strong.

His fingers stir, caressing my hand, feathering against the back of my neck. He holds me so tenderly that, against my better judgment, I decide I will believe him. I will believe in him.

He opens his eyes and gives me a soft smile that shrinks the whole universe down to the two of us. "Do you think you can sleep now?" he asks, his thumb now moving over my cheek.

I laugh softly. The sound makes my already frazzled nerves jangle. "Hardly." I've never felt more wide awake in my life.

"Then… stay?" he says, his eyes fathomless in the gloom as he searches my expression. He shifts over to make room for me against the side wall of the window seat. Next to him.

Because I am safe here and now – and because he is probably the only person besides myself that I'll be able to trust in the arena – I accept the invitation. Sliding in beside him, he loops one arm around my shoulders and I tuck myself up against his side. He is solid muscle and heat and I'm suddenly reminded of how my father used to hold me on the sofa in front of the living room fire, how I used to fall asleep in the curve of his arm. I close my eyes and nuzzle Peeta's shoulder. He doesn't smell like astringent soap, traces of lingering coal dust, or autumn breezes. He doesn't smell like my father, but I remember how it felt to be loved.

I breathe deeply, focusing on the scent of the boy next to me. I know I'll be asleep in minutes, just as soon as the lingering butterflies in my belly settle down. I lean my cheek against him and just let go.

I'm on the very edge of sleep when I feel him shift beside me and press a kiss to my crown. My imminent slumber is the only reason why I don't have to fight against the hot prickle of tears.


Notes:

So, big paradigm shift for Katniss, yeah? Here she is getting on board the "I will not be a piece in their Games" train. Clear the way for Epic!Katniss.

I've drawn several of Katniss' thoughts from the books (e.g., Peeta's long eyelashes) and I'm embellishing the dialog from the movie, expanding it as Katniss buys that aforementioned clue. She is not going to be admitting to any warm and fuzzy feelings anytime soon, though. (So, brace yourself for Stubborn!Katniss.)

Reviews would be super motivational! I'm also on Tumblr (manniness) and Live Journal (manniness).

Snippet of what's to come next in "The Careers":

I glance across the sunlit field at Katniss. Our eyes meet.

I mouth, Together.

She nods.

Recommended fic:

"Finding Home" by DustWriter. I really love how Peeta and Katniss grow together in this story and become family unit. (And since the family theme pops up here in Katniss' POV, this seems like a great time to rec it.)