Howdy there! Merry December. Yeah, yeah, I know, I didn't post one in November. My bad. In my defense though, I did have a broken wrist. Let's see you try typing for long periods of time like a T-rex cause your hand's in a cast. Term papers, not fun. AAAAAaaannnyyyways, I'll put up two this month I promise. Cross my heart.

So this is pure fluff. Like Almost literally. Or as literal as a fanfic can get. (I still don't own Hunger Games. Get your head checked if you believe otherwise) There's no SoI for this one, just an idea I had. Although the original idea was calmer than what this turned into... Whatever. Uh Setting for this is sometime after MJ.

So Standard Rules Apply! I'm still going with my review quota-thing that I said last time. Five, I'll get it up in a month (even though I'm putting up two this month), ten, it'll be two weeks, and twenty I'll get it up by the end of next week. Deal? Deal.

Read, Review, Add to Favorites/Alert Lists! Enjoy!

All's Fair

I'm halfway through my page when a bowl suddenly appears on top of my book. The corner of my eye twitches in my annoyance; the hero was about to make a confession. My eyes follow the rim of the bowl, up the handle of the spoon, and latch on the treacherous hand that had officially ruined my mood. The fingers of said hand wiggle and flick flour on my nose. I cough and glare up at the owner of those fingers.

"What?" I snap, scowling at his smiling blue eyes. His stupid smile seems to grow a bit at my growl. He leans forward till his nose is almost touching mine. I try not to blink too much and fight down a blush. He has that salt and flour smell, the one that's always tinted with strawberries that tells me he's been baking. And something about that mischievous grin tells me he has a plan. A plan about this baking project he's been doing all afternoon.

"What?" I ask again, less aggressively this time but still frowning. He simply keeps staring me in the eye and smiling that stupid smile.

"Peeta."

His eyebrows rise in playful questioning.

"Peeta, I'm reading." I huff.

"No you're not."

My eye twitches again. I struggle not to rudely shove his face away from mine. He knows what he's doing. I know he knows. Because that stupid grin keeps growing. So I take a calming breath and try not to cough on the flour in the air.

"I was reading," I clarify, "before someone rudely interrupted me."

"Who would do a thing like that?" He asks. The innocence in his voice is betrayed by the playful glint in his eye. My fingers begin to twitch. Breathe, Katniss.

"Peeta," I growl, "what do you want?"

Peeta bounces up and away from me at my question. The mischief in his smile has been completely erased by pure joy and excitement. I blink in surprise at his reaction before I feel the corners of my own mouth tilt up.

He grabs the mixing bowl off my book and presents it to me proudly, as if it's a box of gold.

"I'm going to teach you to bake!"

My smile disappears at his announcement and is replaced by what I'm sure is an expression of utter shock. Me, bake? The idea is so absurd I almost have to laugh. But I don't, because I know it would hurt him more than anything I could say.

"I don't think so."

"Come on." He says, giving my arm a poke. "It'll be fun!"

"Right." I agree sarcastically, rolling my eyes. "Just like last time was 'fun'."

He dismisses my words with a wave of his hand. "Last time, we tried something difficult."

I give him a skeptic look. Last time we tried brownies. The result was me almost setting the oven on fire and chocolate splattered on surfaces I didn't even know existed in our kitchen. I even found some on the ceiling fan in our living room. Peeta swears it was a fluke, lack of practice, but I wasn't so sure.

"No." I tell him, going back to my book.

"Come on, Katniss!"

"No."

Suddenly, my book vanishes. I stare at my now empty hands before narrowing my eyes at him again. He's got my book raised above his head like a schoolyard bully. Only his eyes are bright with a challenge, that stupid dopey grin still plastered on his face.

"Peeta, give me my book back."

"Not until you bake with me." He shoots back, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Give it back!"

I lunge for it but he's too quick. He darts back into the kitchen, my book tucked under one arm, his bowl of batter under the other. I try not to completely growl as I chase after him. The corners of my lips threaten to turn into something more pleasant than a scowl as we skid into the kitchen, but I fight it. I can't let him see that maybe I'm enjoying this.

We run in circles for a minute or so, his bare feet giving him the advantage on the hard wood floors against my socks. He knows this, bouncing off the counters, leaving me to crash against them from my lack of traction. His smile fades, though, once his strategy backfires.

My book is still tucked under Peeta's arm. He waits for me to lunge again, ready to skip out of my way. But I'm prepared this time. I slide cleanly and slam my shoulder into his chest. His breath leaves him in a whoosh, his body hitting the counter behind us. I lean forward, placing both my hands on the counter, trapping him completely.

We take a second to catch our breath. His chest rises, almost meeting mine in our closeness, before falling back into place. Peeta casts a glance down to my hand. He's impressed and a little surprised I caught him, but that dopey smile is still stuck on his face. I tilt my head at him and give him a triumphant look.

"Now," I say, "I'd like my book back."

Peeta sighs playfully before reaching for the book still under his arm. Or, at least, that's what I think until my world goes white.

He bounds away, cackling like a madman, while I paw at my eyes.

"You are so dead!" I promise, running after him again. He laughs and hurls another ball of flour at my face. I grab the mixing bowl full of dough and find shelter behind a chair.

It's not until after our kitchen has been covered in flour, dough, and a little bit of icing do I actually manage to trap Peeta successfully. We're on the floor, me straddling his chest and pinning his shoulders underneath my hands. He slipped on some stray icing and I toppled after him.

"I win." I smirk down at him.

"Nope." he replies, shaking his head. Flour flies into the air as his head moves. We're both covered in it, unsurprisingly. My eyebrows shoot up skeptically.

"Yes." I tell him. My book is somewhere back in the living room. I won it during the battle over the table. Peeta's arm still wears the blue frosting as evidence of my victory.

"No." He argues. His arm pulls me into his lap as he sits upright. That smile, that ever present dopey smile, is practically blinding. Cupping my face in his hands he wipes away some of the my own battle scars. His smile turns somewhat devious as he licks his fingers clean.

"I baked myself a wonderful treat."