AN: About my absence. I apologize! I hadn't planned on going on a hiatus of any sort, but I suddenly got a ton of hours at work, and with that and 4th of July and Summerfest I have been trapped in a sort of time warp. Oh, and my laptop mouse quit working D: and thus kept me from updating sooner. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about this story, and I have here a good-sized update, with twice the words of any chapter I've written thus far. I hope you're not disappointed!

So instead of curling up on the other side of Haymitch's bed, my defiant self forces me to get back at him by sleeping on the couch. I've got the bird all plucked and waiting in the fridge for the next meal, and usually I'd be dead to the world by this time of the day, but I'm slightly bothered by whether or not my kill will keep fresh until I need it, how maybe I should just drop it off at home for Prim and my mother, and all these thoughts are keeping me awake... Until more pressing things begin clouding their way into my thoughts. Like how I've been awake by myself in Haymitch's house for three hours now and Haymitch hasn't let out a sound. He's usually started up by this time. Then I'm wondering why I'm looking at this as a bad thing. Maybe he's getting better. Maybe I've been using a beneficial healing regimen, finally showing I'm somewhat my mother's daughter. But then again, Haymitch would probably be just the same if I wasn't around, right? Besides, I know nothing about these kinds of things, have nothing to go by but experience and experiment. That's when I start to worry again. What if he's not getting better? What if he's up there... dead? The lack of liquor has finally caught up to him and dried up his organs entirely? Or he's gone into some kind of shock? Or his kidneys just gave out? I know this is the most ludicrous idea ever, but once it passes through my head I can't seem to shake it. What's it been now, three and a half hours?

So with a jolt, I push myself off the cushions and run upstairs, taking the steps two-by-two until I lean a hand against the doorframe, peering into his room. He's laying there, alright. But he still might be dead. So I step into the room, my fingers brushing down the frame as I do so, and whispering over a dent in the wood there. Oh. The knife, from my first intrusion here. It was less than a week ago, but it seems like so much longer. Switching sleep schedules must do that to a person. Or something.

I round the bed so I can see his face. Shaking or prodding him awake never works, so here I am on my stomach stretching across the bed with the back of my hand in front of his mouth to see if he's breathing.

Ah. There it is. A soft, light breath, warm with life. I let out air I didn't know I'd been holding.

Why was I so worried about this bastard?

Annoyed with myself, I swing my legs up onto the bed, laying on my side and looking at him. Slowly, my fingers make their way to his lips. Soft, breathing lips. My fingers trace his bottom lip lightly, trying not to wake him up with my unaccountable actions. Because these lips. They're not too bad when they aren't emitting his guttural screeches.

And then his eyes flicker open.

Shit.

Haymitch is trying to focus his gaze on me, sleep still clouding his eyes. I blink back at him. His expression, once he wakes up enough to acknowledge what's going on, hardens over into a half-scowl. He raises a hand, spinning it in a lazy circle with his pointer finger aiming down, telling me to turn around. He's done this before. The barriers. And before, I've listened. Rolled over, fallen asleep. But tonight, I'm not heeding his advice. So I shake my head in vigorous disagreement. But he's still there, half-glaring at me with another expression threatening to break through, still spinning his finger at me. So I push his hand away. He's a little shocked, but recovers, pushing me right back. I'm angry now, letting it show on my face as I push him by the shoulder. He pushes back. So another push. And another. And suddenly I'm using two hands to shove him so hard he falls onto his back. A puff emits from the bedding as it happens, and I expect him to get right back up and push me out of the house. But he's just laying there. On his back. Looking up at the ceiling, his forearm moving to cover his eyes as he lets out a half-groan. I consider him for a couple of moments, watching, waiting for a reaction. But it feels like he's giving up, like I'm not going to get anything else out of him. Well I already thought he was dead, so I'm not letting him be a human vegetable for the rest of the night. So quickly I shift my weight, crawling over him until I have one leg on either side of him, peering down at his half-covered face. I'm angry, though I'm not quite sure what for and am not about to waste time sorting it out.

"Katniss," he begins to say, arm still covering his eyes.

"Don't 'Katniss' me, Haymitch," I spit, jerking his arm away with two angry hands, "I thought you were dead!"

"Shit!" He just about jumps out of his skin when he sees me on top of him. He sees my expression and relaxes. He can handle angry, it's what he's used to. Done it enough times.

"You thought I was dead?" he finally says, breaking into a chuckle that sets the bed to shaking. A jolt of something red hot like anger runs through me.

"You weren't screaming," I defend myself. "For almost four hours."

"Guess your little home remedy is working," he says. I roll my eyes and brush off the comment.

"You're getting better, then." I insist.

"Sure, if that's how you wanna chart my progress, doc," he swaths on the sarcasm.

"It IS progress, aren't you happy about that?"

"Well whoop-de-doo, does this mean I'm WHOLE, sweetheart? That you can go back to ignoring me again?"

"No! It doesn't-"

"Oh, I think it does."

"No, it doesn't."

And the scathing look of disbelief he shoots me makes me so mad I do the only thing I can think of: I crash my lips down onto his to stop his damn arguing with me.

Here we are again. There's gonna be hell to pay for this repeat, I just know it, but there's something about throwing Haymitch so off his game... There's something about Haymitch... I don't know what it is with me and this bastard. As my hand reaches up to trap the side of his face, keeping it attached to mine, I notice the feel of his stubbly cheeks beneath my fingers and think maybe, just maybe Haymitch is kind of alluring. I don't know how. But I move my lips against his, and for once, I feel like I might be getting a response from him. I pull back enough to open my eyes, take a look at him, and it's there. His eyes, they're telling me things they shouldn't, things like how he wants this and he hates to admit it but he needs this, and he knows he's showing me, telling me, and he's not okay with that, so he scowls and yanks my head back down and kisses me again. Haymitch. Kissing me. And kissing me. And as I run my tongue over his lips they open up to me, and I don't taste alcohol, which is what I was expecting for some delusional reason. I taste...

"You thought I was dead," he mumbles.

"I think I'm dead right now," I shoot back.

His hand is tangled up in my braid at the base of my neck, and he pulls me back far enough to smirk at me. "Probably are."

"Shut up and kiss me."

He does, once. "Now you're really gonna smell like me."

"Don't care." I nuzzle back into him, kissing the side of his face. It pokes and prickles, but it's so characteristic of Haymitch I grin.

"I can't persuade you to stop again, can I," he states.

"You really want to?" I ask.

I can feel him shake his head, his prickly face squeezing into mine. "Should, but no."

o0oOo0o

After Haymitch stops kissing my face (-!) and goes back to sleep, I slip my way out of his house, bird in hand. I'm still worried about the freshness factor, and since it's only been daylight for a few hours, I decide to take it to my new house for a surprise lunch. I'm never there for lunch anymore; I wonder if they'll be expecting me. Wonder if they'll still make me a plate. Especially if I'm looking as kissed and off-kilter as I feel.

So I do go home and they're surprised to see me, and my mother takes the bird with grateful eyes, taking it into the kitchen while Prim talks to me about her demon cat and inquires after Haymitch. I tell her he's doing better, that I'll get to be around her more because of it. She's pretty happy, though she stays busy enough with school and helping my mom with healer stuff. I secretly revel in what normalcy my little sister has maintained. A flicker of jealousy runs through me before turning to mush. This is exactly what I wanted for Prim. A normal, content-as-you-can-get-in-12 life.

I'm sitting at the table regarding Prim, my head tilted on my propped up hand, when my mother calls us in for dinner. I get up slowly, and Prim's already back at the table eating by the time my mother ushers me into the kitchen to make me up a plate. The way this is all playing out, I know this means she wants to say something to me where Prim can't hear.

"You've been spending a lot of time over there, Katniss." She leans a hand against the countertop like any good disciplinarian mother would. If it wasn't for the time when she checked out of mine and Prim's life, I'd think she was worried about maintaining her motherly duty with me. But I know my way around this woman, and she knows it, too.

"Yeah, I know the schedule's weird, but he sleeps during the day and is awake during the night, I've told you this."

"I know, Katniss, but that's what worries me. You're there when he sleeps? And what do you do, sleep too? Sit up and watch him? It bothers me, Katniss, I went to school with the man." She sure is saying my name a whole lot. And I don't want to think about what she might be implying about his schooltime reputation or about age differences or why any of it should be brought up right now. Maybe I really do smell extra Haymitchy...? I know I have to kick into survival mode, so I quickly divert my thoughts, cleansing myself of any emotion, and put all my energy into deadpanning an end to this conversation.

"Mom, I do stuff," I say, declining to acknowledge how chafed my cheeks are feeling. "You should see his house, it doesn't reek like it used to," I babble. Besides, I have kicked the floor trash into the corners of the rooms, so it is cleaner over there, if only slightly. But getting serious I say, "But I think he's getting better. I was out when he was asleep today," I nod at the bird, "and from what I heard from Prim, he was quiet?" I'm giving her bait now.

She nods. "Haven't heard much in nearly a week."

I nod in acknowledgement. "That's why I'm here," I take the plate and lift it up with both hands to prove my point. "I probably should've asked a while ago, but-" and this is when I drop my gaze, "I was wondering what you could tell me about withdrawal. From alcohol, y'know?"

She eats it up when I let her in like this, so it's the only logical way to get into her good graces again. Plus I kinda do care about what she has to say on this matter. A smile twitches at her lips. "After lunch?" she asks, happy. Or, at least, happy enough. I nod.

"Now let's go enjoy this meal with your sister."

o0oOo0o

"Prim was asking about you."

It's nightfall and I'm leaning against the kitchen counter, arms and ankles folded, watching Haymitch eat a bowl of the stew I brought him from the batch I had for lunch.

"Is this the bird that was supposed to be marinating on my stovetop right now?" he asks with blatant disregard for my words.

"Yes, it is."

His mouth is full when he answers, "Then I demand my own bird for dinner." He's just giving me shit, but I don't humor him.

"I'm not going hunting again until tomorrow."

He shrugs, taking another spoonful. He swallows.

"And what did you say to the little chickadee?"

"I told her you were getting better," I shrug. But there's somewhere I want to go with this. "And that I'd get to spend more time with her." I look at him, expressionless and trying to read him. "In the daytime."

He has to know what I'm implying, that, if he is truly recovering, I'll have to hear it for myself. Longer than three and a half hours.

His eyes flash up to mine before bending back down to his next spoonful of soup, and he shrugs. Blows at the steaming broth. "Nice for Chickadee."

I stand there a few more minutes before a huge yawn overtakes me. I unfold myself, rubbing my eyes with my palm before striding out of the room towards the living room couch. "I'm going to sleep," I mumble.

When I wake up, I find Haymitch at the opposite end of the couch, staring at the TV. I shift, still shrouded in sleep, and he looks over at me.

"Hey, sweetheart," he says. His voice is gravelly and I'm wondering how long I've been asleep. And trying not to think about the blatant lack of sarcasm in the nickname. But a small smile creeps to the corners of my mouth.

I keep trying to blink the sleep from my eyes. "What time is it?"

"Three." In the morning, that is.

"Oh okay," I lay back down. But I can't fall asleep. All the talk about the hope and wonder of Panem coming from the flickering screen and filtering into my consciousness is too much for me right now. I sit up.

"She wonders what we nightmare about," I say. He looks over at me, regret that I brought up the topic filling his features. "She thought it'd help if we talked to each other about it, that's what she thinks we do at night."

He laughs. I'm not sure whether it's because of what we actually do instead of talking, or if the idea of therapy is just that ludicrous. But after a few chuckles, he takes a breath, settling himself. Turns his attention towards the TV again, speaking seriously. "Well maybe she has a point."

I'm taken aback a little, I admit, but I'll take what I can get. And I take this as a we can talk about it if you want. Well, I want.

"You do dream about the Games, don't you?" I ask. " Maysilee's death. And all your years of Tributes, what about them?" It's a minute before he answers, but when he does, it's in such a low whisper I have to scootch closer to hear him. He's most likely trying to avoid rousing the ghosts.

"My Games. The girl, the last girl, with an axe through her skull. Even after all these years." He rubs his eyes on the heel of his hand. "And Donner, not that I knew her that well, but we had something in common. Like you and Bread Boy. And knowing there was nothing I could do to save her."

He pauses for a long minute. Then inhales sharply. "And the same for every Tribute since."

Something like pain shoots through me. I can only imagine how low, how desperate these things'd make any person feel. I put my hand on top of his. He gives it a squeeze, and keeps up the grip.

"But you got both of us out this year," I say, my attempt at comfort.

"This year," he says. "Oh, but it's not over. The things they might make you do, Katniss," he grips my hand even tighter and turns, gaze boring wildly into my eyes. "I can't- I shudder to think..."

"Shh," I say, inching closer because he IS shaking, and if he was asleep he'd be screaming bloody murder, this is exactly how he gets. I'm watching him intently, worried, wondering if he'll go off like a bomb. Maybe Prim's advice wasn't so good after all. But in a few minutes he begins to calm himself down, hand running over my shinbone like an obsessive tick.

"I heard you scream once, sweetheart."

I can't help but glance away. "I didn't think I was that-"

"As loud as this old bastard?" he asks. "Nah, still had a ways to go."

I let my head fall onto his shoulder in defeat. He lifts his shoulder, making my head bounce up. I give him a long look saying I might just kill him. "Yours about the Games?" he asks, looking straight ahead.

I shrug. "More like… yeah, that. And losing people. Prim, Peeta, Rue…" I wasn't going to finish my thought and say "you", because that might sound like more than it is, and I don't even know what this is. I dreamed about losing everybody, not just the people I had to protect, but the other Tributes, the other districts, everyone, and there were nights when I was the last human being on the planet, stuck and so unable to do anything right and so alone. I curled into his shoulder at the thought. He accepts that this time, pats my leg and lets me be.

Pretty soon I'm running through the woods. My woods, though there's something strange about it, about how the light's flickering through the trees and disorienting me in a place I should know. I'm running from something, can hear its heavy breathing from behind me, and then I hear a whoosh coming through the air from behind my left ear and I duck down and scramble to my right just as a knife hurtles into a tree beside me.

I'm being hunted.

In District 12.

Ice shoots through my veins and I pick up my pace, not caring about the noise I'm making crashing through the forest like this, just going, going, not stopping for anything until I run full-force into a tree. What? I stumble back, and only then I see it wasn't a tree at all, it was a person, a man, I only thought it was a tree because he was shrouded in an old leather jacket that looked almost like bark the way it... wait, I knew this jacket. I look up into the face, and it's… it's…

My father.

"Katniss, what are you still doing here?" he's grabbing me by the shoulders. He starts saying all kinds of other words, but I can't hear him because I'm trying to get him to go, to run, he doesn't know I'm being pursued, and then I see something flash behind him in the distance… it's Foxface, and she has a bag of apples in her hand, a neat slit cut through the woven bag and as she runs the apples are tumbling out one by one by one...

No. I know what's coming next... "NO!" I barely have time to shout, to pull my father away into safety because the ground is blowing up into the air as the sound of the Games' cannons fill the open space, pop after deadly pop, and I'm suddenly holding onto nothing but shreds of leather and -

"KATNISS!"

I physically jolt awake, curling into myself in defense, terrified and still half-dreaming so the only person this could logically be would be the person hunting me…

I'm still breathing heavy when I blink into reality and see it's Haymitch standing over me, hand gripping the sides of my arms and hair falling into his face. I'm still on his couch, and I was dreaming. I was dreaming.

"I was dreaming," I rasp, and Haymitch sighs, pushing his hair back even though it flops right back to where it was.

"And you shouted 'no' pretty loud."

Oh god. I'm mortified. And it must show, because Haymitch is suddenly saying, "don't worry, I'm positive I'm still winning."

I press my eyes shut for a long two seconds to center myself, bring me fully back into reality. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm seventeen years old. My home is in District 12. I survived the Hunger Games. I love the woods. My father has been dead for six years. I'm in Victor Village, sleeping on Haymitch's couch. I am alive. Yeah, barely.

I look up at him.

"What," he says.

"Can you sleep here?" I hate asking.

He gives me a look. "It's not a very big couch."

"So," I spit back. That was my point. I just needed somebody close.

He grunts. "Move over."

We finally settle into a position where we both fit wedged onto the thing, his back against the couch and his arm wrapped around me, keeping me from falling off the edge and pulling me into him.

o0oOo0o

When I wake up in the morning – the actual morning – I'm determined to compensate for my nightmare of my woods by spending time there doing what I always do – hunt. Hunt like crazy. I prowl through the trees following a set of hoof tracks, hoping secretly that Gale hasn't already shot this one. Because he should be out here somewhere, it being Sunday again, and all.

I'm getting closer, I can tell by the freshness of the trail, when I hear a rustling up ahead. I crouch, pulling an arrow from my quiver, when I see a two-legged form break through the brush.

"Don't shoot, Catnip," grins a familiar voice.

It's Gale, and he's got the deer slung over his shoulders and looking like he just won the lottery. I deflate and scowl, my version of pouting.

"You're a little late," he says. Still grinning like mad. I hoist myself up from my crouch, slide my arrow back into its holster. I give him a look. "Didn't think I'd see you here at all," he admits. It's my turn to grin. At least I've outmaneuvered him in some way today.

"I could never miss this," I say, motioning to him. "You look like a regular Victor."

His face darkens at that.

Oops.

"Sorry," I say.

He crouches down to pull the deer from his back, laying it against a tree and covering it with a handful of leaves. "I haven't even checked the traps yet," he says, brushing his hands together.

Forgiven.

I point to my usual lines, and we head off in our separate directions, knowing to meet up once we'd finished checking the lines. Along the way I figured I could shoot at a couple of squirrel or grouse, if nothing else.

Had to come back with something, you know.

Two rabbits, a pair of squirrels and a grouse later, I meet up with Gale, who, of course, has to outdo me with a wild turkey, on top of that deer. With the haul we – he – got, we decide to go into the hob together, sell some stuff, and though I mostly just trade Gale for the turkey and visit Sae, it feels good to be back in the habit of something. No one here knows what's been going on with me in Victor Village since it's out of earshot from the Seam and the rest of 12, and the fact that I'm still normal – if not a bit illusive – in their eyes, is comforting.

I mosey back to the Village by mid-afternoon, pleased with my day and my endeavor back into society. I stop off at home to deliver a new ribbon to Prim, who gives me a strange look – I think nothing of it, knowing it's probably because we hardly ever have need to visit the Hob anymore – and I unload the rest of my pack, save the turkey hiding on the porch. That was for Haymitch.

Striding across my lawn and his, I breathe in the springy, scream-free air. Seemed like Haymitch was having another good day. Thank goodness.

"You're having a good day," I shout, pushing the screen door open with a crash, my game bag over my shoulder, and stomp my way through the foyer. But I stop short when my senses catch up with me... something smells different in here. I only recognize what it is when I see a pair of fresh loaves of it on the counter.

Bread. Peeta was here. I round the doorway into the kitchen and immediately correct myself – is here, and leaning exasperatedly against a sparklingly clean counter, towel over his shoulder, with a harassed and surly-looking Haymitch slouching in a kitchen chair.

"What are you doing here?"

I sound a lot more threatening than I mean to.

A cloud crosses Peeta's brow before his face masks over, responding a little harshly, "I could ask you the same thing."

Okay, touché. But I cock my head at him as if to say, really?

We seem on the verge of a staring competition until Peeta slaps the towel down onto the counter and lifts his arms only to let them drop to his sides. "Okay," he says. "I'm baking," he declares like I'm stupid.

I drop my shoulder and the game bag rolls off. In one swift movement, I direct it up onto the freshly-cleaned counter, knowing I'm going to dirty it up with dried mud and game.

"Bringing dinner, among other things," is my response. I turn to look at Haymitch then, who has been unreasonably quiet since my arrival. He's looking rather smug, sitting there watching us.

I want to slap the bastard.

"Are you having a good day or not?" I practically shout at him, wanting to wipe that smirk of his face. Or kiss it off – wait, no. Now would definitely not be an opportune time for that.

"I'm having a good time, especially watching your little soap opera play out. Does that count for something?" he retorts.

I huff at him. And then turn on Peeta.

"So why are you here?" I ask.

"He was screaming."

"He was – " I stop mid-sentence and whip around to look at Haymitch. Oh hell, I'm thinking.

He leans over in his chair, propping an elbow up on his knee and running that hand through his mangled blonde hair. He barely glances at me, but his expression is screaming, Jesus, sweetheart, they're back.

I give him this long gaze, boring my message into him without words: we can never talk about them again.

His agreement is obvious.

"And you chose now to come." I'm still looking at Haymitch when I say it, all the venom gone from my voice.

He speaks slowly, as if I don't quite understand. "Yeah… because I heard…"

But I know he's the one that doesn't understand. "And you didn't hear him two weeks ago? Or for any fraction of time between then and now? Because, believe me, this is not the first time this has happened. So please, give me your excuses. Because while you've been hanging around with your bread with your earmuffs on, I've been picking up the pieces with Prim, I've been over here, I've been keeping his head out of the memories and making him eat and now you show up like the hero with a clean rag and a fresh loaf of bread thinking you have the right – "

The right to do what? Where was I going with this? Was I really going to call him out for judging mine and Haymitch's … coexistence? I was definitely not going to do that.

So I'm standing there, fists clenched, face red, huffing and puffing while he's all frozen in shock across the way. He's got that deer-in-the-headlights look of his, not quite like when his name was drawn, but close.

"Two weeks?" he asks. He turns to Haymitch. "That's how long you've been –" He stops. Glances back at me. "I didn't know, this is the first time I've heard a sound, I swear."

I'm not giving him any slack. My arms are crossed now. I'm waiting for an explanation.

"I swear, Katniss, I've been at the bakery all the time. It's in town. And you can't hear anything from there, you have to know that. I come home to sleep, yeah, but the only thing I ever heard screaming was you once," his face reddens and he looks down. "But we kind of aren't on sleeping terms, so I – " He stops himself again. Then looks up, steeled. "I would have been here otherwise," he looks at the both of us, "you know I would have."

Yeah, I do know that. Peeta is too much of a nice guy to just allow Haymitch to scream, constantly, and do nothing about it. Me, my reasoning was all wrapped up in pacifying Prim. So, grudgingly, I have no reason but to I allow his response.

"And probably would have done so without dousing me with water, either." This is Haymitch's first real contribution to the conversation, and, of course, it's aimed at getting me mad.

"That was once," I defend myself.

He purses his lips. "Still bitter," he declares of himself.

I roll my eyes, but when I look back at Peeta, I notice he's looking relieved that his apology was accepted – but also, suddenly, a little more than uncomfortable.

Oh no, I immediately jump to conclusions. He can't know about…

Can he?

His expression is telling me that he does.

As silence threatens to entomb us in the room, Haymitch rouses from his chair, saying, "Well, now that you're both here to keep me mute, I think I'll take myself a nap."

Hanging me out to dry. Thanks, Haymitch.

AN: So many more characters it's MINDBOGGLING-! Anyway, I went little stir-crazy with this story & trying to get this part up to par as well as up for you guys, so I'd love to hear anything you have to say about it - and the story's progress - in reviews!