Over the next few weeks, 12 becomes a hive of activity. If I had not been paying attention to the new Head Peacekeeper's actions before, I make up for it now, taking note of his every move. I see the way he smiles as he hangs banners with Snow's face on them around the Square. Watch him supervise the reparation of the fence with a smug look on his face.

When he burns down the Hob, the light from the flames penetrates his eyes so deeply that I can almost see the patriotic madness inside of them.

Peeta tries his best to distract me with training, but with only a week or so left until our departure, I am more focused than ever on the ruination of my home. I watch him struggle with my inability to train and try my best to draw my attention back to his efforts, but often to no avail; if it is not Thread that distracts me, then it is the occasional fluttering of – of something, some un-nameable thing, that stirs behind my navel, making my heart race. Sometimes, if it happens during training, I can't avoid the sharp intake of breath or the way my hand flies to my stomach. Sometimes I can't suppress the acidic bile that races up my throat, threatening to bubble to the surface and betray me. Most times, I make it inside and out of Peeta's sight before it happens, but once, I didn't quite manage to run fast enough and vomited all over the porch steps.

I had been expecting – or dreading – questions from Peeta, but he seems to have realised that, as with so many other things, I will tell him not so much when I should but when I am ready. The relief and gratitude that I feel at this trust is overshadowed, however, by the guilt. The shame that I feel at my silence only serves to drive us further apart. I am unable to speak to him for fear of what he's thinking, or what I might accidentally blurt out. So we hardly speak any more. When we touch, it is largely by accident. Lately I've woken up most mornings to find that he's slept in his studio.

But no matter how hard I think, try to figure out a way to tell him, the old fear always rears its ugly head and the silence wins again.

"Feeling a little distracted, are we?"

I glare at Haymitch, moving forward sheepishly to tug the knife, intended to hit the tree in his backyard, out of the ground. He lets out a dark laugh in response. He's feeling more than a little smug; this is the first time he's beaten me in an exercise like this, alcohol withdrawal nontheless. As I make my way back to the line that we'd been throwing from, I avoid the eyes of my two companions and throw myself onto the ground. I can feel Peeta's concerned gaze on the side of my head but allow myself a moment of childish embarrassment and simply tuck my legs up under my chin. I wrap my arms around them tightly in order to supress the urge to reach up to him for comfort.

Peeta's in the process of making his way over to me when we hear it: someone making their way across the lawn to us. Without a moment's hesitation, all three of us have grasped our knives and spun to face our intruder. Why we do this, I don't know – Haymitch later comes up with the best explanation, arguing that anyone who dares interrupt three pent up, paranoid victors when they have knives in their hands are in for a shock, and Jesus, he really could do with a drink.

Gale raises an eyebrow, lifting his hands. "I come in peace."

I instantly drop my knife, but my companions are not so fast to surrender their weapons: out of the corner of my eye, I see Haymitch and Peeta exchange a look that is resigned on Peeta's part and disbelieving on Haymitch's. A look that almost says are you going to let this happen? Before I have time to wonder at this exchange, Peeta drops his knife. I smile up at him. Haymitch, however, holds onto his, ignoring my pointed look.

"Can we help you?" Haymitch drawls, playing with his knife in a way that can only be described as sinister. Gale ignores him and addresses me directly.

"I heard some of the new Peacekeepers talking. They're going to start charging the fence again tonight." His voice is urgent and as his eyes penetrate mine deeply his meaning is crystal clear: this could be our last chance. I see in his face the same desperate nostalgia that courses through me at the thought that I might be losing my haven, our haven, forever. Then I remember that I am going to be dead within a fortnight. Unexpectedly, the need to be out there, to be free one last time, intensifies by a thousandfold. I force myself to look round to Peeta. The old Katniss might have taken off without a moment's thought, but thinking of the unexplained exchange between him and Haymitch a few moments before stops me from doing this. He looks down at me and sighs, nods his head. Ignoring Haymitch's disbelieving snort, I stand up and embrace my husband for the first time in days.

"Thank you," I breathe into his ear. His arms wind around me tightly and he says nothing, kissing my cheek instead. When I pull away, I reach for his hand. "You could come with us…?"

I know from the half smile that this coaxes from him that he knows as well as I do that this is an empty offer. He's too loud, of course, and he's never been inside the woods. "Thanks, but I'll stay. Thought Haymitch and I would try out some weightlifting again." Haymitch groans behind him.

I smile, lean forwards to kiss Peeta on the cheek and am shocked when he turns suddenly, making our lips touch. I mean to pull away, but something happens when the kiss changes. Somehow, out of nowhere, a small pool of fire begins to form in the pit of my belly. The kiss deepens: I gasp when Peeta's tongue sweeps across my top lip and bite down onto his bottom one gently, rewarded by a hitch in his breath. I smile into his mouth and we pull away. The grin that greets me is so filled with love and desire that I realise I want to stay here, to make him smile like that again. I remember now, with a jolt, that we have not kissed like that in weeks. I cannot help myself when I lean forwards, desperate for the feel of his lips on mine again.

"Ahem."

Despite my heightened awareness from years in the woods, I jump. Haymitch is leaning against the side of his house, eyebrows raised. Gale is staring at the floor, his hands clenched into fists. I realise that I had forgotten they were there, caught up in mine and Peeta's bubble of re-discovered desire. Guiltily, I make to move away from him, but Peeta's arm snakes around my waist in a not completely unwelcome fashion and I melt into his touch.

"Don't be too long," he murmurs as he pushes a strand of hair away from my forehead. I smile up at him, kiss him again.

I turn away and gesture to Gale, who has been edging away from the scene slowly. "I just have to get my things." Gale nods. I see his face drop as he watches me duck into Peeta's house rather than the house that I shared with Prim and my mother. My stomach churns uneasily. Will I not stop disappointing people today?

Within a few minutes, Gale and I are striding towards the Meadow, where he reliably informs me the last hole in the fence remains untouched by Thread. This seems a little wrong in my mind and I cannot help but wonder why our new, vigilant Head would leave such a glaring gap in his security, but I am too anxious to get into the woods to worry about this now, so I push it to the back of my mind. When we reach the hole, I turn to Gale and gesture for him to go first. He shakes his head.

"I can't. My back…" I can hear the sadness in his voice and pity flows through me – Gale has never let anything stop him from joining me in the woods, and I know that it kills him to be crippled in this way. Without hesitating, I reach out to hug him. I pull back when he laughs against my shoulder.

"What?"

"I knew you'd do that," he says. I raise my eyebrows, demand a further explanation. "Because I'm in pain. That's the only thing I've got going for me, now, isn't it?"

I hate this. It's the implication that I'm some sort of twisted Mother Theresa who only shows affection when she thinks she is expected to, when someone she cares about needs her. In a way, this is true – don't I thrive on being needed? Don't I get a kick out of watching Prim enjoy our new home, knowing that its procuration was partly down to me? Don't I love to see the children on Parcel Day, clutching the extra food they never would have been able to afford? – but to hear Gale voice it is too much for comfort. Within seconds I have pushed him away, wriggled under the fence and am sprinting out of view.

Completely unintentionally, I realise that I am heading towards the lake. I don't bother to retrieve my bow, knowing that in my state the chances of me hitting anything are exactly nil.

I come to regret my decision, though, when I hear the unmistakable click of a weapon right behind my head.

"Turn around," the voice says. "Slowly."

Peacekeepers. Damn. They won't punish me, I'm sure – Snow is already doing that for them – but for them to find me, here, now, is something I would rather have avoided. "Look, I don't want any trouble," I say through gritted teeth. "I'll just go back through the fence and we can forget all about it." I don't know where these words are coming from – Peeta, maybe, and his conciliatory ways rubbing off on me – but I don't have long to wonder.

"It's her," another voice says. "It's her, Twill!"

The sound of a weapon hitting the ground. I turn, slowly, bracing myself for a fight regardless.

Two women in Peacekeeper's uniforms that don't fit are staring. One of them is holding something. Something familiar.

"What is that?" I bark.

"You don't know?" The one holding it asks in surprise. I bristle at this, say nothing. "Katniss, it…"

The other woman – older, I think – takes it from her and passes it to me. I frown at it.

It's a cracker. I can't fathom this, for a moment, and merely stare at it – but then I turn it over. Imprinted into it is…

"It means we're on your side," the older woman says softly.

It's my mockingjay.

-HG-

Some part of me is surely surprised when I find myself standing on his porch, my hand hovering in mid-air as if to knock upon the battered wooden door, but I know somehow that I had never intended to go anywhere else. I knock, wincing as I shift from one foot to another and land on my injured ankle. I make a mental note to go to see my mother first thing in the morning.

Haymitch doesn't answer, so I push the door open and make my way inside. Predictably, the place is a mess: empty food wrappers and various bottles litter the floor, and I find myself coming to the conclusion that liquor may not have been the only reason for Haymitch's inherent untidiness. Unpredictably, he isn't in: I settle myself in for a wait, taking a seat on the torn loveseat and hissing when my tailbone protests painfully.

I am there for – what, an hour? It feels like an age. I am on the verge of running out of patience when I hear him drag his weary feet up the porch steps and into the hall. He is tired, that much is evident, so I know that he will not have noticed my presence. I frown. I hate startling Haymitch, particularly when he has a knife nearby – and in his house, there is always a knife nearby. I clear my throat quietly, hoping for the best.

He responds almost immediately, charging into the living room, eyes wide and knife slashing wildly. It takes a moment for him to spot me: another moment passes before he decides that I am no threat and puts the knife down. He takes the seat opposite me wordlessly.

"This had better be good, sweetheart. I'm tired."

I had forgotten the modification to his sleep patterns – now that Haymitch has to be up early to train with Peeta and I all day, he has taken to sleeping more and more in the night. I can see by the shadows under his eyes that he is having trouble adjusting to such a change. Perhaps the nightmares are worse at night.

I push pitying thoughts of Haymitch and his terrorised subconscious aside and fall into my story. I tell him about the encounter with Bonnie and Twill, and the uprising in 8; about their insistence that 13 exists, and their proof; lastly, about Thread's new persecution of my freedom, and how I am sure that someone has informed on me. Haymitch, to his credit, does not interrupt. Even after I have finished with my story, he remains silent, his grey eyes glinting in the moonlight that filters in through the blind-less windows. I try to allow him some time to react, but I am buzzing: buzzing with the possibility of a 13th district and all that that could mean. "Well?" I burst out finally.

Haymitch shifts uncomfortably. "I wouldn't get your hopes up, sweetheart."

My heart drops. Of course, I'd known that it had been too good to be true. But some part of me clings to the idea of freedom, somewhere outside of Panem, waiting in the unexplored wilderness. This part of me is unexpectedly harsh. "Oh, what would you know," I snap, pushing myself off the sofa to pace the length of the living room, ignoring the pain in my heel.

"I don't. But neither do you." Haymitch lets out a shaky laugh that surprises me. "This is what people do when they don't know what else to do, sweetheart. You're clinging to desperate rumours, just like those girl from 8."

This pulls me up short. I stop pacing, consider this. "But what about the footage of the mockingjay?" I frown.

"Oh, please. The Capitol's rich, but do you really think they can afford to fly out a reporter to 13 every time they want to make a news bulletin?"

And with those words, it's gone. The last hope that I had, destroyed by Haymitch's downhearted logic. I sink back onto the sofa. Despair spreads through me like poison, chilling my heated veins, steadying my racing heart. "What do you think they will do to them?" I whisper. "The rebels?"

I glance at Haymitch, and he looks as forlorn as I feel. "I don't know, Katniss," he mutters back. I can barely register shock as he calls me by my name. "Look at 13. They had no problem wiping that district off the map. And you've seen what they've done here, even without any real provocation. I don't think Snow would have nightmares over the death of another district."

This is too much for me. At once, I am on my feet, ready to flee – as I always do – at the prospect of death. All my fault. My hand is on the doorknob, when Haymitch's snide voice halts me in my tracks.

"You can't keep doing that, you know."

I whirl around to face him. Desperation has made me wild. "Doing what?" I snarl. I just want to be out of here, in my own bed, with Peeta…

"You can't keep living like this, sweetheart." He pushes himself out of the armchair in which he sits and stops in front of me. "You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know." I've heard this before. I'm on my way to turn, to stalk away from him, but his hand catches my arm. "But you could at least act like you're trying."

This shocks me to the extent that I do not try to pull my arm out of his steel grip. I meet his eyes, confused, and am yet more bemused to see a little sadness in them. Haymitch takes advantage of my shocked silence and presses on.

"You might not be able to see it, but I sure as hell can. Every time you flounce off with your coal miner friend, you…" He lets go of my arm, drops it as though he no longer wants to touch me. "You have no idea what you're doing to him, do you?" He spits at me, disgusted.

I suddenly think of the exchange between Peeta and our mentor earlier today. The way Haymitch had looked vaguely appalled at the thought that I was just going to take off, to leave them and spend the day with Gale, instead. The way Peeta had looked, a little sad, as if to say what else can I do?

As I have been contemplating this, Haymitch has strolled away and is busying himself trying to make a fire. I watch him struggle with matches and wet wood for a moment. Listen to him curse. I slowly make my way over and prise the matchbox from his hands. Within moments, a flame takes hold of the damp kindling. I blow on it.

"He never says anything, does he?" I shake my head at this. "Didn't think so. But don't you make the mistake of thinking that just because his mother beat the backbone out of him, I'm going to let him make the same mistake with you." I abandon the fire and turn to glare at him. His face is softer than I could have anticipated, though, and I can't quite get out my scathing retort. "Listen, sweetheart. He'd never tell you this, but he loves you more than life itself. Hell, the kid's willing to die for you. Which, by the way, I will never understand." He lets out a sad chuckle, shakes his head. "I know you feel the same way. Maybe you feel that way about Gale, too." I open my mouth to protest this, but he cuts me off. "I thought not. Can you see, though, that he might not be as observant as me? Jesus, Katniss, if you saw him vanish off into the woods at some girl's beck and call, what would you think?"

I picture this. I see Peeta being lead into the woods by some mystery girl. See him letting her hold his hand, laugh at her jokes. See him let her kiss him.

And I hate her. I want her dead more than I've ever wanted anything.

I blink out of my fury-filled reverie and find Haymitch watching me. With the image of Peeta and the stranger kissing still fresh in my mind, I ask him, "is that really what he thinks?" I mean for it to come out a little stronger, but all that comes out is a whisper. I sound, for a moment, like what I really am: an eighteen year old girl, in love for the first time and terrified about it. Haymitch must hear this, too, because he reaches out and strokes my upper arm. He doesn't need to say anything.

A few minutes later I am in the house that I share with Peeta. I tug my boots off, gritting my teeth as I jostle my injured ankle. I hobble up the stairs, clinging to the banister, and turn into our bedroom. Peeta is not there: panic flares through me in a way that I can't quite explain. "Peeta?" I call frantically. "Peeta?"

"In here."

Urgently, I push my way into the second bedroom and sigh in relief. The room that Peeta has turned into his studio is filled with paintings, easels and – thankfully – the man himself. I limp a pathway through the paintings and wrap my arms around him where he sits with his back to me. "Hey," I say, breathless in my relief.

"Hey," he smiles back, tilting his face up to mine. I am in the process of leaning down to kiss him when two things happen simultaneously: one, my tailbone grazes a painting behind me and I let out a yelp of pain that causes Peeta to leap to his feet instantly; two, I notice what it is he was working on, and tears spring to my eyes.

"What is it?" he's asking. His hands and eyes fly over my body frantically, trying to discover the source of the pain. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I say impatiently. I move forwards to examine the painting. "Oh, Peeta."

"Katniss, did he hurt you? Tell me."

I spin around to face him, hissing once again as I move too quickly for my ankle's liking. "What? Peeta, no!"

He hesitates for a moment before nodding. I am the one who reaches for him, pulling him into my arms. As we melt into the embrace, I find myself relax. Of course, relaxing is not always a good thing, as I discover when the tears begin to flow. He pulls away, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

I mean to speak calmly, but I am sobbing too hard to get a word out. I can see panic in Peeta's eyes: I have never cried like this in front of him before. I gesture to the painting by way of explanation.

"You weren't meant to see that," he says quietly. He goes to pick it up, to tuck it behind some other work of art, but I stop him.

"Is that…" I choke, impatiently wipe away the tears. "Is that… really… what you think?"

Peeta is silent. We both stand back to examine the picture. Of photograph quality, it encapsulates Gale and I in the woods: our hands are clasped in what some might see as a display of friendship, but from the way that Peeta has drawn our eyes – filled with love and adoration – it is obvious that he sees it as something more.

"I didn't mean to paint it," he mutters. He runs a hand through his hair, smearing paint onto his scalp. "It just… happened."

Watching him carefully, I think back to the image that I'd visualised back at Haymitch's: I see the mystery girl claiming Peeta in the same way that Gale claims me in the painting, and it breaks my heart. I want to talk about this. I really, really do. I need to – need to convince him that it's never been like that with Gale. Not like it is with Peeta. But I don't know where to start.

"Peeta, I…"

I know that there is no way that I can make up for this. The heartache this must have caused him – I can never change that. Never clear my conscience. I break into fresh sobs – why is this happening so often now? I think for a minute and decide to blame the hormones – and he pulls me into his arms without a word.

"Come on," he says finally. "We need to get out of here. I can't… look at it any more."

I nod and let him lead me to bed.

Long after Peeta has fallen asleep, I stroke his face, kiss his cheek, and wonder if I will ever deserve the boy with the bread.

Haymitch is right, I think, and the hand that is not exploring the contours of my husband's face drifts to my stomach, where it finds the sickeningly evident bump that is growing by the day. I have to tell him soon.

And then… and then…

No, I think. I couldn't. I stare down at Peeta, my brows meeting in concentration. He would hate it.

But what if…

For the second time that night, I find myself at Haymitch's house. He's asleep, but he's so alert and so sober these days that I manage to wake him with a shake. Ignoring his protests, I launch into my plan.

It's dawn when we stop talking. Peeta, I know, will be just getting up, and will panic to find an empty bed. I am leaving, my hand on the door knob, when Haymitch catches my other arm.

"You do know, sweetheart," he says. I have a feeling that he's aiming for his usual unconcerned drawl, but it falls way short when his voice breaks. "What this is going to do to him?" He looks pointedly at my stomach. "You're going to break his heart."

My throat tightens and my stomach churns uneasily. "I know," I whisper.

Haymitch watches me for a long moment before nodding, releasing my arm. He's never done anything like this before, which is why I gasp when he takes me into his arms. "It's the right thing to do," he murmurs into my hair.

When he lets me go, we both feign ignorance of the tears welling up in the other's eyes.

No more time for tears.

Tomorrow is the reaping.

AN: Jeez, sorry this took so long. I hope you guys enjoy, and hopefully I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can – probably within the next week. Ta!