Hello, hello! Sorry I've been gone for so long. I've been writing and rewriting and revising and editing, and school and life just love to get in the way… Here's another chapter! Enjoy.

Katniss' POV

My legs hang over the edge of a chair in Haymitch's living room and out of frayed denim cut offs that were surely a Capitol obscenity – even the Avoxes dressed better. But I didn't care. I didn't care about the Capitol, I didn't care about fighting for what's right, I didn't care about the scars, both mental and physical, that this entire Hunger Games ordeal had left on me, cluttering my mind and marring my body. I just wanted to be Katniss, free of any weight, reputation, connotation or double entendre. I want to have nice lie-downs and not wake up screaming from nightmares. I want to go buy bread without any emotional distress. I want to plant flowers in a garden and watch them grow, surrounded by loved ones, secure, but not oppressed. Was that too much to ask?

I shift, having sensed movement, but I immediately regret it. Instantly, I recall – but of course – that last night's events definitely couldn't have been possible without some help from our very dear friend, the gregarious and pleasant phenomenon that is alcohol and its subsequent intoxication. My head is pounding too much for me to even protest as Peeta gets up, gingerly pats me on the head, and walks past me to the kitchen. I'm rolling in the deep, nursing a hangover, and meanwhile, after brawling with Haymitch and getting his hands sliced up, Peeta goes and makes breakfast for all of us. Typical.

I don't want Haymitch to wake up. From behind aching lids, I could gauge the time as being somewhere around nine o' clock – at the moment, the lighting was far too bright for my standards –and anytime before noon is too early for Haymitch to wake up without being belligerent. Besides, the fact that I am wearing questionable shorts and one of Haymitch's old, oversized undershirts doesn't help things, but when you're exhausted and shaking and shaken and you incidentally find a pair of your own shorts in a drawer, what better pajamas can you conjure up? Among other things, I didn't want Haymitch to find more time for switchblades or live target practice with them. One would think we would be fine, seeing as Haymitch's pocketknife is floating around somewhere, not in this house, right? Of course, I wouldn't put it past Haymitch to have a weapons stash somewhere. The Games do that to you.

I listen to the sound of Peeta putting around in the kitchen. Even under the pomp and circumstance and ice and hatred, he was innately sweet, and I hated him for it. I had to be grateful. I had to be courteous. I had to be kind. Vaguely, I wonder if today's mild hangover might make me even more irritable and unlovable than usual, but then again, could things get any worse? Still, the game had to be played right to make sure that nobody got an ear cut off before lunch

The sweet, mouth-watering sound of slices of bacon making contact with a pan is enough to really wake me up. I open my eyes, and that's when I freeze.

Haymitch. Leaning against the wall as he watches the world from his window. He glances at me, no emotion passing over his face as he shifts to me. Here is a dangerous thing. Once the apathy sets in, there is no reasoning to be done. Of course, he could just be waiting for me to speak. Just because he wasn't showing emotion didn't mean that he harbored negative ones.

I stand up carefully, taking caution to avoid sudden movements. I want to question Haymitch, to subtly inquire what exactly he intended to do, because I didn't feel too cheerful about Peeta and Haymitch in an enclosed space with about three drawers full of fancy Capitol kitchen knives, but Haymitch holds his hand up. "Save it, Sweetheart."

I survey him a bit suspiciously as he looks outside the window again. He adds, "I'm not going to hurt him."

I want to snort, and sarcastically interject, "Oh, man. What a relief." But I hold myself back. I have to play things right. I don't like it. I don't like the tension – well, tension of this variety, anyway. There are other issues to be resolved, like the way Haymitch still managed to look good in a crumpled dress shirt and wrinkled slacks. If only I could straighten them out… On top of things, despite last night's mess, I had started to feel funny whilst searching for injuries. I had never really held his hand or examined his arms, which were littered with countless scars but still beautiful. Ask anyone from District 12: scars make for excellent stories.

I watch him carefully. Fearing the worst, I move towards him, only to be disappointed. With an almost automatic tug of the smooth, metal, handle, he opens a drawer and produces a tiny, neon green bottle with bright pink lettering upon the label. He twists the shiny rose-colored cap off of the container, and gulps down whatever is inside in two seconds flat. I can't be sure if the drink was to help the hangover go away or invite more of it to stay, but Haymitch seems to return to his normal self, if still a little more reserved than usual. Of course, maybe I'm spoiled by interacting with Haymitch while his guard was down, when he rowdy and sarcastic and flirtatious and a million times more— fun.

He looks at me. "Hangover Helper. From the Capitol. They give them out as party favors." He moves on the balls of his feet. "I mean, why would I hurt the boy?"

I raise an eyebrow dubiously. Really? Did he really just ask that?

"Free food, you know?" he continues, stretching his arms high above his head, and I watch, more fascinated than I should be, as the material expands across his chest and his shirt becomes untucked in the front and I notice some things. "Or rather, I don't have to cook, and he's a baker, so why not let him do the work, right?"

I sense an attempt at humor, and I feel my resolve start to melt, like fresh butter on one of Haymitch's exquisitely delicious pancakes. Out of all of the life-ruiners that I've met, I just can't stay properly angry with this one. Still, the smile doesn't become manifest. My heart is too heavy and too taxed, already charged with the task of trying to keep it together and trying to keep the only two people that I have left from killing each other.

His hand brushes my arm, and I become aware of our proximity to one another. Yes, Haymitch is a sorry hot mess, with more-often-than-not greasy bedhead and an attitude, his face the vision of age, though gracefully, and drunkenness, not so gracefully, but it's not a bad look on him. The only departure from the norm is the look of worry and resignation that has made its home on his face. There's that tension again, so thick that you can, well, throw your switchblade at it and then flip over a table. So, I wait patiently for whatever is to come.

He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it. Something tells me that this is more than just "Effie looks like a angry food-poisoned unicorn threw up all over her."

"I'm sorry."

It takes a moment to register. The words are clear and direct, like his gaze, but they're almost surreal. There isn't a sneer to taint the sentiment, or a hint of a smile to tell me that it isn't real. It's just Haymitch, still weather-beaten, slightly possibly definitely mentally unstable, 30 proof Haymitch, but sorry. Penitent. Genuine.

I'm not sure who moved first, but suddenly we're flush against one another, our lips colliding. Mentally, I'm screaming as Haymitch's hands find my waist and my mouth parts automatically to let him inside. What are we doing, and Why? But I know better. My hands lie almost useless at first, gripping his shoulders as I cling to him, but, as if of their own accord, find themselves at the roots of his matted, tangled mess of his hair, pulling him closer to me. The chaste embrace is replaced by legs in between the other's, and next thing I know we're on the couch.

I don't want to go this far, not for my sake, but for Peeta's. Like a saint, Peeta is making us ingrates breakfast, and I'm sure that this fragile calm that we've managed would blow up in our faces if Peeta strolled in, wondering if we had seen a measuring cup anywhere. However, I'm not in a position to speak. Pressed into cushions as Haymitch's lips trace down my jawline and across my neck, I gasp a little as his hands slide up underneath my shirt. I curse myself silently; yes, Peeta would be coming in to investigate. Damn. I relish the moment, the sensation of Haymitch's teeth on my collarbone, and his mouth catching mine before I can even make a sound. I couldn't say that this was the absolute first time, but above all else, I prayed that it wouldn't be our last.

Before we reach the point of no return, I slide my hands in between us, placing them on his chest, and gently prying him away, glancing pointed in the direction of the kitchen. He sighs, hardly holding back a devilish smile as he runs the back of his hand across his mouth. It's streaked with remnants of last night's lipstick, and I flush. "Fine," he says, grinning, turning to walk into the kitchen.

Dear Lord. I stop for a moment, and realize that I'm panting. I'm a mess, I'm a mess, I'm a mess. I sit up, and, knees pulled up to my chest, listen to Haymitch and Peeta having a chat in the kitchen. Fix your hair. I comb my fingers through my hair, untangling from it snags and knots and the lint accumulated by not spending the night in a proper bed. I'm sure now that my hair looks suspiciously nicer than it did to begin with, but hopefully Peeta won't be too suspicious. I rise, adjust my shirt, and head for the kitchen.