A/N: Wow! Guys, I've can't express just how much you make my day. Every review brings this really goofy smile to my face that I hope people find endearing instead of strangely creepy. Seriously. You. Guys. Are. Awesome. I really want you guys to know that although I'm not replying to your reviews anymore like I used to (curse the busy college life), I still read and cherish each and every one of them and I cannot express how much it means to me that you took the extra few seconds to click that pesky, little "Review" button.

So, on that note, we are almost in the arena! Almost, almost, the action is upon us! People will die. I love it when I get to kill people.

In a literary sense of course. Not in real life. That would be a felony charge that my current record can't take . . .

Just kidding. I have no record. Squeaky clean, I am. Not even a speeding ticket (though I most definitely deserve one). ;)

And getting back on track, this chapter is a lot of fun. Lots of sweet, yet sad moments.

Movie quote of the day comes from Star Trek.

"I suffer from aviophobia - it means fear of dying in something that flies!" - Leonard "Bones" McCoy

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."; "Over that boy hand!"; "Don't ever hit your mother with a shovel. It leaves a dull impression on her mind."; "Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!"; "There's a jungle cat in the bathroom!"; "Any guy can sweep a girl off her feet; he just needs the right broom."; "I suffer from aviophobia - it means fear of dying in something that flies!"


Chapter 27

Oh. My. God.

Shock cannot accurately describe how I'm feeling. My mind is wondrously blank. I can think no coherent thought. All I can process is overwhelming astonishment and incredulity. I don't even have enough sense to feel betrayed. I'm just . . . frozen.

The audience takes a few heavy seconds of silence to absorb Peeta's statement, and then it's complete and utter chaos. Cries of anguish and wails like dying animals fill the air, so loud that I'm nearly shaking due to the volume. The audience doesn't know what to think, what to do, because Peeta has presented them with a situation that has never been heard of.

I am pregnant.

Even the most bloodthirsty, barbarous, inhumane, Hunger Games-loving, Capitol citizen cannot deny the egregious, horrific situation that I am faced with. Peeta's announcement has sent accusations flying, screaming of cruelty and injustice.

Once again, Peeta has stolen the show. He's dropped a bomb that has exploded and wiped out all the efforts of those before him. Well, perhaps not. Perhaps he only lit the fuse; perhaps the other tributes were merely building the bomb, hoping that my wedding dress would provide the spark. But I rely too much on Cinna's brilliance. Peeta only needs his remarkable wit.

With six words, Peeta has challenged the Capitol and everything they stand for . . . and he did it all without saying a single thing against them. My husband is a genius.

And while my rational mind sees this and understands the sheer brilliance of Peeta's plan and its purpose, my budding maternal instincts are screaming at me to flee from the stage and get as far away from the Capitol as possible. For a split second, I'm just waiting for someone to come take me away from Peeta, right into the clutches of President Snow. The thought holds no logic, but my hormones are anything but logical and right now I want to protect my child in whatever way I can.

Caesar fruitlessly tries to reign in the crowd, but it's hopeless. His lips are moving, but I don't hear any sound other than the chaos of the audience. I don't hear a buzzer sound, signaling the end of the interviews, but Peeta stands anyway and merely gives a nod of acknowledgement before coming back to me. A booming sound echoes through the air, causing me to tremble with the great volume, and I realize that it's the anthem. The great speakers on either side of the stage are shaking with the level of noise they're being forced to produce, but it's necessary because of the uproar of the audience. The blasting anthem is the only cue I have to stand, indicating that the interviews are in fact over.

Peeta walks over to me with tears in his eyes, but I can't focus long enough to see if they're real or not. I feel his warm, strong fingers grasp mine, and I hold his hand tightly. Unthinkingly, I reach over with my other hand and close my fingers around Chaff's stump of an arm.

And then the most wonderful thing happens.

Chaff takes Seeder's hand, which then prompts all the victors up and down the row to do the same. Some join immediately, like Johanna and Finnick, or Wiress and Beetee. Others are more hesitant, like Brutus and Enobaria, but they eventually join because of the demand of the others. For one glorious second, all twenty-four of us stand tall, united as one, and our rebellious image is projected onto every screen in Panem. We, the Victors, showing our disapproval. Our public show of unity among the districts slapping President Snow in the face.

Recognizing our stand as what it is, the televisions immediately cut to black, but that doesn't change the fact that everyone saw. Everyone in Panem, in the Capitol, saw the districts united for one glorious moment. Our rebellion and strength resonating throughout the entire nation, giving the people hope.

The anthem ends and the stage is immediately a mess. Peacekeepers and Capitol employees usher the victors off the stage and hurriedly guide us toward the elevator. I lose hold of Chaff, but Peeta's arm is wrapped around my waist tightly. We're pushed into an elevator, and though the Peacekeeper tries to block their way, Finnick and Johanna manage to slip into our elevator just before the doors close.

"Is it true?" Finnick asks, and I nod, inwardly cursing the tears in my eyes.

My need to escape and my desire to protect my child have faded only slightly. I blame some kind of biological instinct, but I'm just about as close to Peeta as I can get, tucked into his side and subtly angling myself so that he is between me and everyone else in the elevator. They must be able to sense some part of my inner turmoil, because Peeta's arm tightens around me and Finnick and Johanna stay on their side of the elevator, giving me my space.

"Well, congratulations." Finnick gives us both a weak smile before exiting the elevator as the doors open to the fourth floor.

I just manage to glimpse the ocean blue walls of his suite before the doors close and we're shooting upward again. Johanna doesn't say anything. She just stares at me, alternating looks between my still-flat stomach and my face. It would perturb me except for the expression on her face. Oddly curious and sympathetic. Of course, there's anger too, but I've quickly learned that that's just Johanna being Johanna. When the elevator stops for Johanna she says, almost absently as she walks out, "That kid's gonna be a fighter."

Only when the doors close once more do I relax a little. I bury my face in Peeta's chest and relish the feel of both his arms wrapped protectively around me. "Are you mad?" he asks.

I sigh. "I understand why you did it. I really do, and the rational part of me agrees with it."

"But?"

"But on the other hand, I can't help but feel terrified. There's this overwhelming urge to protect the baby, but there's nowhere for me to go." My eyes close and I breathe in the scent of cinnamon that always seems to cling to him. "I'm angry with you and not at the same time."

"They just had to know," Peeta begins to explain his thought process. "They were upset with the Games anyway. They love their victors, and they currently love us the most because we are newer and we gave them our love story to swoon over. I just had to make them see what they've become. They needed to see the injustice. They needed to see the cruelty."

"And you just accused the Capitol without ever saying a word against them," I say. "You just held them accountable. They're to blame for the horror. You did all of that without saying one rebellious thing."

"Hopefully it will really make the Capitol citizens stop and think," Peeta says. "To realize what they've become. It's one thing for the districts to oppose the Capitol. It's another to have the citizens of the Capitol oppose the regime."

Before either of us can say more, the elevator doors open and we find ourselves in an empty suite. Peeta suggests that we change while we wait for everyone to get back, muttering something like, "stupid monkey-suit." I don't comment on his mumbles, but I do take his advice.

The shower feels nice. Well, I figure it would if I could focus on anything other than getting back to Peeta. The events of the night are still messing with my emotions, which are not under firm control at all now that I'm pregnant, and I really do not like the fact that Peeta is not with me. Even if I know that he's simply right across the hall.

Almost as if he sensed my inner turmoil, when I walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, Peeta is already sitting on my bed waiting for me. The sight of him prompts the greatest sense of relief, and the swell of emotion brings tears into my eyes. Damn hormones. I don't know how exactly, but I end up in Peeta's lap with my arms wrapped tightly around his neck and my face buried in his shoulder. My tears fall silently. No choked sobs or shaking. I'm just . . . crying. About everything and about nothing.

But Peeta holds me all the same. No questions or even soothing words. He knows me so well. I don't want to hear placating words. They're just an attempt to ignore reality. I don't want to hear that 'it'll be alright' because neither of us has any way of knowing that and right now, the odds aren't in our favor. They never have been. Peeta just holds me, being a wonderful steadying presence. That's all the comfort I need at the moment. I just need to know that he's there.

After a few minutes, my tears have dried and I feel remarkably better. Weird. I wordlessly relinquish my hold on Peeta, re-secure my towel under my arms, and begin to rifle through my dresser. The first things I see, I grab. Black, cotton pants and a black tank top. I let my towel drop to the floor, and a knowing smile appears on my face when two large hands help me finish dressing by assisting me with my shirt.

Peeta's fingers are playing with the hem of my shirt, and he gives me a small smile. "Couldn't resist," he says, his fingers abandoning my shirt and grasping my hand. "Let's go wait in the living room."

No one has arrived yet when we step into the main room. A soft babble of noise prompts me to go to the window, and I look down to see tons of blinking lights and scurrying people going every-which-way. It's chaos. "Looks like you have them rattled," I tell Peeta absently, my hand subconsciously moving to my stomach.

"That's an understatement."

Peeta and I spin around to see the elevator doors just closing behind Haymitch. "It's madness out there," he says, a weariness in his tone. "Everyone's been sent home and they've canceled the recap of the interviews on television."

"What are they saying?" Peeta asks. "Are they asking Snow to stop the Games?"

For a brief moment, I entertain the idea of a grand announcement by President Snow, calling off the Games. It would really be something, wouldn't it? Then I'd just have to find a way to evade the assassination team that would surely be sent after me and Peeta. No doubt Snow would send one, especially after foiling his prized Games.

"I don't think they know themselves what to ask," Haymitch says, bringing me back into the conversation. "The whole situation is unprecedented. Even the idea of opposing the Capitol's agenda is a source of confusion for the people here." Haymitch sighs. "But there's no way Snow would cancel the Games. You know that, right?"

Peeta nods, though I see a flash of wistfulness in his eyes. Of course Peeta would have entertained the thought of Snow calling off the Games as well. "He can't back down now," Peeta sighs, glancing out the window to the chaos below. "His only option is to strike back, and strike back hard."

Haymitch nods in agreement and I ask, "The others went home?"

"They were ordered to. I don't know how much luck they're having getting through the mob."

"So we'll never see Effie again," I say, suddenly very sad at the thought. Not just because I won't get to say goodbye, but at the realization that this could very well be goodbye. There's no guarantee that we'll be able to break out of the arena, and there's no guarantee that I'll even survive long enough to give it a chance. "You'll thank her for us, won't you?" I ask. "Tell her that she was the best escort ever."

Haymitch nods and we all stand there in silence, realizing that this could quite possibly be the last time we ever see each other as well. None of us want to voice it. Despite his surliness, his drunkenness, and his sarcasm, Haymitch has wormed his way into my heart. He's family.

"I guess this is where we say our goodbyes as well," Haymitch finally breaks the stalemate, embracing the inevitable.

Peeta gives him a weak smile. "Any last words of advice?"

"Stay alive."

It's almost like an old joke between us, now. Stay alive. The only real advice he can ever give us. Except this time, he's not talking to us as a mentor. He truly wants us to return because in his own, weird way, Haymitch loves us. In some crazy, twisted, and yet truly heartfelt way, we have become his children . . . just as he has become our father.

Haymitch and Peeta share a 'man hug' as Rye once explained to me, a very brief embrace that occasionally involves a pat on the back. Then it's my turn. I'm not letting Haymitch off that easily. I hug him tightly, and I don't let go when he tries to pull away after a second. I don't speak. My throat is far too tight for words. Finally, knowing that this is hurting Haymitch just as much as it is me, I let go after another second or two, but not before I swear I feel Haymitch stroke my hair.

I step back and Peeta takes my hand. My voice still isn't cooperating will me, so Peeta speaks for the both of us. "Take care, Haymitch."

And that's it. Haymitch abruptly turns and walks away, leaving Peeta and I standing in the middle of the room. We stare at our mentor's retreating back until he's out of sight and then Peeta tugs on my hand and leads us to our rooms. We pause in the middle of the hallway, Peeta's door on the right and mine on the left. He smiles half-heartedly at me. "Yours or mine?"

"Ours," I tell him, before leading him into my room, which makes Peeta chuckle nonetheless.

We both fall into bed and lay there silently for the longest time. I content myself with tracing random patterns on his chest with my fingertips for awhile, trying to forget that I'm returning to the arena in less than twenty-four hours. I try to ignore the fact that either Peeta or I could die and be separated forever. The thought that this might very well be the last time I'm able to lie completely safe in his arms hits me like a freight train. And suddenly I'm overcome with the desire to be as close to Peeta as I can be. He knows how much I love him, right? When was the last time I told him? It irks me greatly that I can't remember.

"I love you," I say, breaking the silence. The need to be completely sure that Peeta understands the depth of my love is overwhelming me. He has to know. I can't go into the arena without being sure that he knows how much I love him. He has to know that I need him like I need air to breathe. He needs to know how integral he is to my life, my sanity. He must know.

I lift my head from his chest so I can look him in the eyes. "I love you more than anything. You know that, right?"

Peeta smiles softly. "Yeah, I know," he assures me. "And I love you. More than anything."

"Let's make love," I blurt, causing Peeta to chuckle in amusement at my abruptness. I'm so glad he finds it endearing instead of odd. Otherwise this would be awkward. "This could be our last chance."

Peeta's eyes lose all their amusement as he studies me seriously. "This isn't going to be our last chance," he tells me softly, a determined light in his eyes. "We'll have the rest of our lives—"

"We might not, and you know it," I interrupt him. I really don't know what kind of desperation is welling within me, but I need him. Not just physically, but emotionally. I want to feel that closeness and that overwhelming sense of love that always seems to envelope us. I want to share that with him. I need to share that with him.

"Peeta," I plead quietly, beginning to trail my lips over the skin of his neck. My butterfly kisses end at his ear where I whisper, "Please?"

Peeta gives in with a groan and rolls so that he's hovering over me, immediately claiming my lips as my fingers thread through is hair. You would think that since this may very well be our last chance at being together, our love making would have been desperate and frantic. Wrong. In reality, Peeta and I take it slow. Lingering caresses. Soft sighs. Gentle, yet deep kisses. It reminds me of the night of our toasting. Slow, loving, and tender.

When we finally collapse and fall back onto the bed, I'm feeling wonderfully content. A small smile graces my face as I cuddle closer to Peeta, my head resting on his chest, my arm thrown over his waist. I listen to every beat of his heart, which has yet to return to a normal pace, and sigh when Peeta trails his hand down my back.

"We're good," I say and Peeta chuckles.

"Yes, we are."

We're silent for another moment before Peeta speaks, his voice soft. "We need to go to sleep," he says.

I snort. "I'm surprised you're still awake."

"Hey," Peeta says defensively. "I can't help that."

Both of us share a smile. I kiss him lightly on the lips before returning my head to his chest, and Peeta's arms tighten around me. After a few minutes, I feel myself teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, but I can't seem to push myself over the edge and fall asleep. Just when I think that I'll be stuck in this odd limbo for the rest of the night, I feel Peeta's hand settle over my stomach.

And I immediately find sleep.

Hours later, I wake to the sound of Peeta's voice, though my eyes refuse to open and acknowledge the day. Instead, I focus on the rich baritone of Peeta's voice, which sounds soft and gentle and . . . adoring? Finally, my brain wakes up enough to distinguish and process words, and my heart nearly stops.

Peeta is talking to the baby.

My senses begin to work overtime, and I quickly process that I'm lying on my back and that Peeta is not right next to me. I crack my eyes open just enough to see that he's scooted down the bed, and one of his hands is resting on my stomach. He's speaking to our child as if he or she is already here, right in front of him.

". . . and I love you and your mother so much." It occurs to me that I should probably let him know that I'm awake, and I feel slightly guilty about eavesdropping on this very private moment; but, if I make the slightest movement, Peeta will know that I'm awake, and I'll never know all that he said to our child.

So I stay silent and still, listening to what Peeta has to say.

"You and your mother are the two most important people in my world," Peeta whispers with a small smile. "And I'm not going to let anything happen to you, I promise. Daddy's going to keep you safe."

Tears spring into my eyes, and I squeeze them shut to keep them from falling. Still, I feel a single tear escape, but soft lips kiss it away and my eyes immediately open, my arms already reaching for him. "How did you know?" I ask as Peeta wraps me in his arms.

"Your breathing sped up," he says as kisses my hair. "Don't worry, you didn't hear anything I wouldn't have said whether you were awake or not. Nothing is going to happen to you. I won't let it. I can't lose either of you."

His words prompt more tears, but I'm able to fight them back. I'm about to go into the arena. That's no place to show weakness. "Peeta—"

"Listen to me, Katniss," Peeta cuts me off softly. "When we're in the arena, don't go to the Cornucopia." I open my mouth to argue, but Peeta interrupts me. "Don't," he tells me seriously. "You know it's not your game so don't try to play it. You've got to get out of there quick, just like last year. I'll find you. Don't wait for me. Find Finnick or Johanna and stick with them, okay?"

I want to argue, I really do. I want to snap at him that just because I'm pregnant does not mean that I'm made of glass. Pride is really a nuisance at times. But this isn't a simple case of me being pregnant and hunting in the woods. I'm about to go into the arena, where people will try to kill me and won't pause just because I'm pregnant. It won't matter. As much as my pride recoils, I relent. Peeta's right.

"Okay," I agree.

The relief in Peeta's eyes is plain to see, and I'm reminded that this is just as hard for Peeta as it is for me. "Good," he sighs, holding me closer. For a minute we simply lie in bed and hold each other. I'm listening to every beat of his heart, praying that it never stops. Gently, Peeta rolls me onto my back and then begins to kiss me. It's one of the sweetest kisses we've ever shared, full of love and promise. The way Peeta holds me has a protective edge, and I wonder if he realizes that in this position, there's no way for anyone to get to me without having to go through him first.

We break away, and Peeta rests his forehead against mine. "We should get dressed," he says eventually. "It's almost dawn."

It's with great reluctance that we get out of bed and begin searching for our clothes. Peeta doesn't have much to hunt for, just his pants. I, on the other hand, have a few more clothes to find, and Peeta's habit of flinging them in random directions does not help. After a few minutes of searching, I've managed to find and dress myself in all my articles of clothing but one.

"Where's my shirt?" I ask exasperated, looking at him. "This is your fault."

Peeta shrugs sheepishly. "I wasn't really thinking about where it landed. All that mattered was that you weren't wearing it."

Despite everything, I still manage to blush.

Suddenly, the door opens, and both Peeta and I spin to face the intruder, only to find Cinna. However, curiously, he's not staring at us. "Katniss, why is your shirt hanging from the ceiling fan?" he asks mildly, doing a brilliant job of hiding his amusement.

"Peeta," I growl in embarrassment. "You mind getting that for me?"

Peeta's blushing too, but he also appears to be trying to hold back laughter. "Sure." The ceilings are only eight feet high, so all Peeta has to do is reach up and snag the shirt. He places it in my hand as he kisses my forehead. My eyes close involuntarily at the sweet, gentle gesture as he whispers, "See you soon."

When I open my eyes he's gone.


Yeah, I know, another cliffy. Sorry, but they're every writer's bread and butter. They're so deliciously tempting.

And we finally got to read the "Katniss, why is your shirt hanging from the ceiling fan?" line. It's one of my favorites, and I've been getting questions throughout the story about when the line was going to pop up . . . so . . . question answered. :)

Peeta, yet again, proved his awesomeness this chapter. Just when we think he can't possibly make us love him more . . .

It's really too bad he's a fictional character. Let us all pause to lament this fact . . .

Okay! So, the arena is drawing near! Next chapter in fact, so get ready for some long-awaited, much-needed action! Woo!

And the quote from Come Rain or Come Shine, my version of Mockingjay comes from . . . (drum roll please) . . . RYE!

"Driven? Seriously? Look, I may not know people like my little brother does, but even I can see that she's too cold. She's just like the president but with a lot less flair . . . probably because of that stick that's so far up her ass."

Yep, Rye lives everybody. There's your first little spoiler. ;)

Lots of love,

AC