A/N: Okay, really short note here! Thank you so, so very much for the reviews! We've crossed 1000! That. Is. Awesome.

Quote of the day comes from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

"You may not like it Minister, but you can't deny . . . Dumbledore's got style."

Random Disclaimer: I do not own CF, though I do own a rather fantastic fedora; "Think you used enough dynamite there, Butch?"; "Why is the rum always gone?"; "Why so serious?"; "I'll get you my pretty! And your little dog, too!"; "I am Asneeze, father of Achoo."; "Dobby did not mean to kill . . . only to maim . . . or seriously injure."; "My precious!"; "Puny god"; "So that's what it feels like"; "Yeah, I can fly."; "There's only one God, ma'am, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't dress like that."; "Your skin is pale white, you dress fashionably, and you abstain from sex. . . I know what you are . . . Jonas brother"; "Snakes. I hate snakes."; "When you marooned me on that god forsaken spit of land, you forgot one very important thing, mate: I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."; "It's like Christmas, but with more . . . me."; "It's the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."; "It's beautiful isn't it, Harry? The moon."; "Hang on, everybody! I wanna try something I saw in a cartoon once!"; "Well that's as clean as it will ever be.; "Slimy, yet satisfying."; "You may not like it Minister, but you can't deny . . . Dumbledore's got style."


Chapter 21

Flee. Run. Escape. Fight or flight. I can't fight something that's set in stone, but I can still try and escape it. Before I really understand what I'm doing, I'm on my feet and running out the door. The icy air that hits my skin is like a slap in the face, but I ignore it. I feel something wet in my eyes and on my cheeks, making it hard for me to see.

All I want to do is go somewhere safe.

My feet lead me across the street, and I bust through Peeta's door and run up the stairs, nearly falling on my face more than once. I fly down the hallway to the bedroom, slam the door shut behind me, and then collapse onto the bed, burying my face into my pillow. Tears come in a downpour, and I'm shaking with the force of my sobs.

When I feel a large hand on my back, I whirl around to face my attacker. I can't see a thing through my tears, so when I feel strong arms trapping me against a hard chest, I try to scramble away. But the arms only tighten around me the harder I fight. After a few seconds, I begin to process things. The smell of cinnamon. A soft, baritone voice. My body begins to relax.

"Peeta," I whimper brokenly, hardly recognizing my own voice.

In all this time, I'd never thought that I would go back into the arena. It was a chapter of my life that I'd thought I'd passed through. It was done. No going back. Only moving forward. I'd been prepared for many varieties of Snow's retaliation for my rebellion. Assassination. Imprisonment. Torture just to hear me scream even crossed my mind as a possibility at one point, but this . . . returning to the area . . . it had never crossed my mind once.

All of this could have been avoided if I'd only died. If I hadn't raised the backpack when I was fleeing the Cornucopia, Clove's knife would have embedded itself in my skull. I wouldn't have even known what hit me. It would have been an easy, painless death. If only I'd died from dehydration, if I'd never found that pool. That would have been slightly more painful, but at the very end I would have been so loopy with hallucinations it would have been a blissful way to go. I'd just go to sleep and not wake up. If only I'd been stung by more tracker jackers. That would have been the most painful way to go, but it doesn't bother me, because this reality now is far more painful. Or maybe, maybe Clove could have shut her trap and killed me when she had me pinned to the ground at the feast. Or Thresh! Thresh could have chosen to kill me. Bash my head in like he'd done Clove. Foxface. She could have caught me off guard with that knife. Instead of the glancing blow I'd received, it could have nailed me in the gut. Then there was Cato. A final, bloody battle at the Cornucopia where I would lose . . . maybe Peeta or Rue would still have figured out a way to win.

Either way, it would be easier if I were dead.

"I should've just died," I say angrily through my tears, and Peeta's arms tighten around me.

"Don't say that," Peeta orders sharply. "Just don't."

"But—"

"No," Peeta interrupts me. To my surprise, he pulls away from me, holding me by my shoulders. There's a fierce look in his blue eyes, like he's trying to burn a message into my skull. "Listen to me," he demands, his voice soft, but firm. "Things would not be better if you were dead. Yes, the arena was hell, and I don't relish the thought of going back, but damn it, Katniss, I still don't wish I'd died in the arena. You want to know why?" I simply stare at him, and he continues. "Because if I'd died Katniss, I wouldn't have you," he says, his lips pulling up in a faint smile. "I wouldn't have had the chance to love you and be loved by you. I wouldn't have had the chance to call you my wife. I wouldn't have gotten the chance to show you just how much I love you. And I don't know about you, but I would gladly go through a hundred different arenas, if it meant I could still share what was left of my life with you."

My tears are pouring down my face again, but this time it's for a whole different reason. Peeta has said a lot of things to me: sweet nothings, heartfelt romantics, but this . . . what he just said to me . . . is the single most beautiful, loving thing he has ever said to me.

I know that I can't say anything. Peeta has taken away my ability to speak, but I know he must see my answer in my eyes. Because I wouldn't trade what we have now for the world. I don't care how many arenas I'd have to fight through, it would be worth it just to have Peeta's love. To love and be loved. Like my father said, love, true love, is always worth the risk.

We both lean in at the same time, and when our lips meet, I'm filled with the greatest sense of urgency and desperation. Our kiss is frantic and rough, and I don't think we've ever shed our clothes so fast. It's like we both want to prove our love to each other, and we're definitely determined to succeed. Peeta's hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, and I'm pretty sure he's going to have scratches from my fingernails decorating his shoulders.

Judging by his moan, I don't think he cares.

His lips are attacking the flesh of my neck, and I know that he's going to mark my skin many times tonight. Normally, it would annoy me, but this time I don't care. All I know is that it feels good and that's what I want. I want to feel good, anything to distract me from the horrible reality facing me in the coming months.

Not liking the even the smallest of distances between us, I pull his lips back up to mine and kiss him with all that I have. Our tongues dance together, and I'm vaguely aware that my grip on his hair is probably painful, however, Peeta only holds me tighter. But it's not enough. I want to be closer to him, as close as I can possibly get. I grind my hips into his, telling him what I want, and he doesn't hesitate to comply.

Neither of us last long. The pace we set is far too heated and frantic. We cross the threshold together and afterward, Peeta collapses on top of me, and the feel of his weight pressing me into the bed is glorious. He moves to roll off of me, but I keep my legs wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck, preventing him from moving. Calmness seeps into my veins and I begin to gently comb my fingers through Peeta's hair.

After a minute or so I still haven't let him go and Peeta mumbles, "I'm squishing you."

"I don't care," I say stubbornly, causing him to chuckle, but when he makes the move to shift off of me I let him, and he rolls onto his back.

I turn into his arms the moment they open for me, resting my head on his chest, listening to his still mildly frantic heartbeat. My fingertips ghost over his skin, and Peeta sighs contentedly. "Well," he says after a moment. "That was different."

"Sometimes different is what we need," I say softly, and Peeta hums in agreement, before I feel his lips in my hair.

"I love you, Katniss," he says softly. "No matter what happens, that will never change."

"I love you, too," I reply, kissing his chest, right over his heart. "For better or worse," I can't help but add, and Peeta chuckles.

"This would definitely be in the 'worse' category," he agrees, and I smile. "We'll find a way through this," Peeta continues, his voice serious once again. I lift my head from his chest so I can see his face, which is shining with determination. "You and me, together."

"Haymitch might—" I begin, but Peeta interrupts me.

"No, if he gets called, I'm volunteering," he says, and even though I knew that that was what he was going to do, it still makes my heart clinch in worry. "We got out of one arena together, we can get out of another one."

I shake my head. We got out of the arena together only because of a sympathetic heart, former (now deceased) Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane. Only because of my trick with the berries did we both make it out alive. No amount of nightlock will save us this time. If, somehow, Peeta and I are the last two alive, Snow will blow us both sky high.

"Together," Peeta repeats, overriding my thoughts like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Always."

My lips meet his softly, such a contrast from moments before. "Always," I repeat, almost like a promise.

We fall into a deep sleep, so deep that the nightmares can't reach us, and for that I'm eternally grateful. I wake up in the morning sore in all the right places, but feeling amazingly well-rested considering the night before. Peeta is already awake, I can tell, his fingertips drawing lazy patterns on my back.

"We need a plan," he says, his voice completely devoid of sleep. Hmm, so maybe I was the only one who slept well last night. I can tell by his tone that he's been up for a while, thinking and planning no doubt. To check my theory, I lift my head from his chest to study his face.

"Did you sleep?" I ask him, my tone slightly scolding, causing Peeta's lips to quirk up in an amused smile.

"A few hours," he admits.

"How long have you been awake?"

"A few hours." I scowl and he responds by kissing me. "Don't worry about me," he says when he pulls away.

"Fine," I relent for the moment. "Do you have any ideas for this plan?"

"We train," he says. "Like the Careers. No one will stop us. The people in 12 may be scared, but they're on our side. They won't report us. We're going to get the best shape of our lives. Your mom can make a diet plan or something. Something that will make it easier to gain muscle." He pauses to grin at me cheekily, "More so for you than for me."

I scoff. "You're not that impressive."

"Oh, but I am," Peeta retorts with a cocky smirk and I roll my eyes, though my hands betray me and I find that I'm tracing each of his abdominal muscles, all six.

Peeta chuckles, knowing he's won, but like the modest person he is, he doesn't point out my weakness. Instead, he continues on with telling me about his plan. "And I'm going to call Effie and get her to send tapes of previous games. We'll watch them, and learn all we can about the victors. Haymitch should be able to give us some more personal stuff. He's been around long enough to know a lot of them."

"What about Haymitch?" I ask. "Is he a part of all the training and stuff?"

"He can be," he says. "But he doesn't have to. I'm going into that arena with you, there's no other option."

"You could be called and then he could always volunteer," I have to point out, but Peeta shakes his head.

"He wouldn't," Peeta argues.

I frown in confusion. "Well, why not?"

"Because he knows that he's of more use outside of the arena," Peeta says. "I wouldn't have a clue about how to handle sponsors and all the background work. That's Haymitch's realm. If we have any shot at getting out of that arena alive, it's Haymitch."

Since it's obvious Peeta has prepared for every possible argument he anticipated me making, I give up and listen to him. "Anyway, we'll take notes on the victors and then when the reaping gets here we can focus on the tributes and review. It's our best shot."

"Well," I sigh, knowing that we only have a little less than three months until the reaping. "We better get started."

We begin our training that very same day, after telling Haymitch about our plan. He actually agreed that it was a good idea, and offered to call Effie for us about the tapes of previous Games. I make a point to visit my house to check up on my mother and Prim. I don't want them to doubt my state of mind. While I might have had a breakdown last night, I've regained my strength and determination. Something must show in my eyes, because my mother immediately goes to work on a special diet plan when I mention it, and Prim offers to teach me about medicines that I could find in the arena and other, simple first aid things that I might need to know.

The next months pass by in a blur. We run a lot, sometimes to the point where I don't think I can force my legs to take another step, but Peeta will say something and somehow I find the will to keep moving. Peeta begins to really work on lifting weights, making me grateful for Effie's early wedding gift—a bench press that he keeps in the basement. I watch as he slowly adds more and more weight throughout the months until he begins to max out at four hundred and ten pounds. Haymitch says that Peeta can't possibly lift anymore without hurting himself.

We work on everything. Knife throwing, which after practice we're both surprisingly good at, nowhere near Clove's standards, but definitely better than decent. Peeta helps me with hand to hand combat, but we don't work on that too often, because there are only so many different times I can be on top of Peeta and vice versa with one of us thinking about something sexual, and Haymitch gets pissed when we start making out.

Gale even helps, teaching us more elaborate snares. He even helps Peeta with hand to hand, considering that it's a given Peeta will beat me, and Haymitch, while strong, is just a tad rusty. It's weird to watch Gale and Peeta fight. Half the time I'm engrossed, and the other half I'm worried one of them will snap and really start trying to beat the other. It's gotten to that point on more than one occasion, and I have to make up an excuse to stop the fight, just to avoid a real one. It's always easy to spot. A tenseness will settle in the air. Gale's moves will get sharper, and Peeta's hits get harder. They'll both stand up straighter. Haymitch laughed and called it 'posturing.' My mentor thinks the ongoing, subtle, unspoken rivalry between Gale and Peeta is quite amusing. Of course, I didn't understand this, when it was obvious that I was with Peeta and that it wasn't going to change. That was when Haymitch informed me that guys would always be guys. Gale would always resent Peeta for being with me, and Peeta would always resent Gale for wanting me. Haymitch says it won't end until Gale finds someone else.

Our regimen continues. Work out during the day, and then watch the tapes of the Games at night. Haymitch fills us in on some of the more personal aspects of the victors, and Peeta writes it all down in a notebook. I gain muscle and put on a few pounds, and in contrast, Peeta actually loses weight. Not much, only about ten pounds. He's leaner now, still wonderfully broad shouldered, but leaner, his muscles even more defined than before.

I'm feeling better than ever, physically at least, until about a month before the Games. I wake up feeling nauseous, and sometimes just the smell of something will cause me to toss up everything in my stomach. The flu is the first thing that pops into my mind, but I don't have a fever. Prim and my mother order me to rest anyway, and I sit out on training for an entire week.

It doesn't help. I manage to hide most of it from Peeta, carefully extricating myself from him in the mornings before bolting into the bathroom to vomit. I'm lucky he's sleeping heavier now, what with all the exercise. If he wasn't, I wouldn't be able to leave the bed without waking him up, and I definitely didn't want him privy to me puking my guts out every morning.

Something pricks in the back of my mind as another week passes, another week of mornings filled with nausea. I try desperately to ignore what my body is telling me, but something settles within me, some kind of instinct. I try to fight it, but I can't. I tell myself that I've never had regular cycles, that it's always been normal for me to skip months, but the fact is that my period is late, and I don't have the fact that I'm a virgin to fall back on anymore. The thought that I could possibly be . . . pregnant . . . fills me with such terror that it makes me vomit until I'm dry heaving.

I try and reassure myself for the next few days, telling myself that Peeta and I always used protection, and that there was no way that what my body was telling me was right. My body was wrong. For the first time in my life, I prayed for my period to come. I was willing to suffer the cramps and the bloating and all the hell that came with a period, but it never came. Three weeks before the reaping, I finally decide that there's only one thing left to do.

After training is over one day, I sneak back to the house, knowing that Prim is there alone.

"Prim?" I call softly, cursing when my voice cracks.

"What is it, Katniss?" Prim asks as she walks out of the kitchen. We stare at each other for a moment, the living room separating us. I feel tears begin to prick in my eyes, but I bat them back.

"I-I need something," I tell her.

"Okay," Prim says reasonably, though I know she realizes that something is wrong. She's adopted that calm tone that I've heard my mother use on sick patients and the comparison is not helping my emotional state right now. "What do you need?"

"You can't tell mom," I say quickly, my voice sounding harsher than I meant it to, and Prim's eyes widen for a moment, before she nods.

"Okay."

"Prim, I . . ." I swallow, before forcing myself to say the words. "I need a pregnancy test." The words escape my lips in a whisper, and I'm surprised she heard them.

Prim doesn't seem too shocked by my request. "Alright," she says. "Come on."

I follow her into the cupboard where she and my mother keep their supplies. On the top shelf are three pregnancy tests, and Prim reaches up on her tiptoes to take one. She's almost as tall as I am now. "I've been debating just taking this to you," she tells me, almost absently. "You can hide the nausea from mom, but not from me. I know you better."

It's the first time she's truly acknowledged our mother's absence in our lives. We've always relied on each other, and in some ways, Prim knows me even better than Peeta. "Here," she says, placing it in my hand.

I take it hesitantly, like I'm afraid it will bite me. Almost mechanically, I begin to make my way upstairs into my room that I hardly ever use anymore, and proceed into the bathroom. My trembling fingers fumble to open the stupid box, but eventually I get it open and read the instructions inside.

I take the test, and then I'm waiting. Waiting for a little plus sign to show on the tiny screen. The waiting is agony. My heart is beating against my chest frantically, and I try to keep my breathing even. Waiting is torture. I'm reminded of the Launch Room. The room where I waited with Cinna to be launched into the arena. Sitting on the couch in silence, clutching his hand, waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for a future that I had no control over. Waiting to be thrown into an arena filled with death, with no real hope for life.

And here I am now, facing that situation again, except this time, it would be so, so much worse.

I vaguely note Prim's presence beside me. I don't know when she came in, but she stands beside me, and we both wait. And then it appears. A plus sign.

I'm pregnant.

My breath comes in short gasps as I choke on the sobs that are already shaking my body. I feel myself slowly slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor. "No, no, no, no, no . . ." I whimper pitifully, as if my words can change what has happened.

What have I done?

My body is wracked with harsh, angry sobs. I feel like pulling my hair out, but I settle for slamming my fist into the floor, oblivious to the resulting pain in my knuckles. I want to scream, but I don't have enough breath. I'm pregnant.

The thought swirls in my mind, taunting me. I'm pregnant. My stupidity has made this happen. This is why I didn't want a relationship. This is why I didn't want to fall in love. This is why! A child, my child, being born into this cruel world. And now, it's even worse, because the president has a personal vendetta against me. My child is doomed.

I want to hate it. So, so desperately with every fiber of my being I want to hate it, loathe it. I want to be perfectly fine with killing it, ridding myself of its hindrance. I want to think of it as nothing but a nuisance to be destroyed. I want to hate it . . . but I can't. I can't hate something that's part Peeta.

Peeta.

For a moment, I'm blindingly angry at him. After all, if he'd never entered my life, if he'd never made me fall in love with him, I wouldn't be in this position. It's all his fault. All of it. I would have survived just fine without him. I didn't need him. I only needed myself and my bow. What was he anyway? Just a person that made me weak . . .

But just as quickly has it had risen, my anger fades, because I know that I'm wrong. I do need Peeta. I can't survive without him. Peeta has provided a balance to my life, a sense of completeness that I didn't know I'd been lacking. He's everything to me, and he makes me stronger.

But what now? Tears pour down my cheeks in a torrent as I think of the Quell. I'm going into the arena, but now it's not just me. I'm not fighting for just me. If I die, my baby dies, a part of Peeta will die, and I can't accept that. But what if . . . what if Peeta dies in the Quell? What if . . . what if somehow I live? The idea is so abhorrent to me, that it prompts a painful sob to tear through my throat. I can't do this without Peeta. I can't raise a child without Peeta.

"Katniss?"

I snap my head toward the voice, and see Peeta standing in the doorway, confused and worried. I hadn't even realized Prim had left me. "Prim said you needed me. Katniss, what's wrong?"

The question only prompts another river of tears, and I'm surprised I still have the ability to cry. My outburst only catapults Peeta's worry and I can tell he's on the verge of panic. He crouches down beside me, tenderly wiping away my tears in a useless gesture because there's no way they're going to stop falling anytime soon.

"Katniss, you're scaring me," Peeta says, begging me with his eyes to tell me what's wrong. "What is it?"

I open my mouth to try and tell him, but my words are choked by gasps and sobs, and finally I give up and merely hand him the test, which I've been clutching in my hand this entire time. Peeta stares at it dumbly at first, before I see recognition in his eyes. For a moment, I see a flash of joy, elation really, until it is completely overcome by fear. Peeta has realized what this means. This is no pregnancy to celebrate.

Peeta falls back onto the floor, landing heavily, but he doesn't seem to care as he slumps against the wall beside me. I feel like a blubbering weakling, sitting here on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, balling my eyes out. And the longer Peeta remains silent, the more my anxiety rises. Is he mad at me? Does he hate me for doing this to him? For messing up? Is he . . . is he going to leave me? My heart wrenches so painfully that I gasp. No more tears fall from my eyes, I've run out. All I can do is shake and tremble.

Vulnerability hits me hard, and I've never felt so alone. It's like there's a wall between Peeta and I, built of the strongest stone. This is it. He's going to leave me. He doesn't want me anymore. These thoughts threaten to drive me insane . . . until I feel warm, strong fingers lace with mine.

And just like that, the wall between us crumbles.

Peeta pulls me into his lap, and I'm so tired and worn out from crying that I don't even make a move to protest. I fist my hands in his shirt and bury my face into his neck. Peeta begins to whisper to me, but I don't really hear what he's saying, all I'm comprehending is that he's holding me, that he still wants me.

That's all that matters right now.


So, there we go. She's preggers. She'll go to the Quell. Yep, I went there.

Quote from the next chapter comes from . . . Peeta!

"I'm not going anywhere."

Lots of love,

AC