I could've gone home. Should've, maybe. But somehow I ended up in the woods, the place where I go to feel most centered, where I can clear my head and just be me. I needed to be alone with my thoughts, or, preferably, without any thoughts at all. I searched out my bow even though it was dark and definitely not prime hunting hours, but hoped that maybe, in the process of the night, something would come to me. Something that explained why Haymitch was being so cold, and why I couldn't shake the feeling that Peeta wanted to go back to how it was in the Games. I end up falling asleep in the upper solid branches of a tree. Somehow, it'd come to feel natural after my time in the Games.

I awoke with the sun, the early-morning haze still fogging up the spaces between trees before me. I blinked more fully awake, and turned to untie the ropes securing me to the branch. My fingers fell flat on my legs. There were no ropes. Apparently I'd fallen asleep without anything holding me to the tree. I was glad that I hadn't fallen out, because what a waste would that be, not even letting myself get killed by the Careers but doing it for them? I shook my head and turned my attention to my backpack, thinking a sip of water would do me some good before moving forward for the day. Again, my fingers fell on fabric, not the thick straps that should've been covering my shoulders. Panicking, I looked around, down the trunk, to see if that fell during the night, but nope, not a thing. Just a bow and a quiver of arrows.

My bow.

My head thunked back against the trunk of the tree. Damnit, when was this going to end? I'd just woken up and was convinced I was still in the Hunger Games. That was all behind me now. When was my brain going to catch up?

I took my time in climbing down the tree, trying to revel in the fact that I had survived, that I'd beaten the Capitol by getting Peeta out with me. But then I just started thinking about how everything was so different now, being back and being famous and being supposedly "in love" with a boy I felt more ambivalent to than anything.

I took up my bow and slung the quiver over my shoulder, figuring now was as good a time to hunt as any. It felt therapeutic to feel the crunch of dead leaves beneath my feet, to see my breath in the air ahead of me, to duck and cover at the sight of movement not out of fear, but out of gain. I ended up with two squirrels, shot right through the eye, and a bird.

After stashing my gear, I headed off toward the fence with my game and into town. Before I knew it, I was winding my way towards the bakery. I stopped dead in my tracks, but, smelling the delicious aroma of the stuff, I couldn't turn away. As I pushed open the door, a little bell rang from inside the store.

"Katniss." I heard the surprise in the voice of Peeta's father as he greeted me from behind the counter.

"Hi, Mr. Mellark," I greeted him tiredly. "Sorry, I guess I usually come to the back door, but…"

"But you're nearly family, now," he said warmly, wiping his hands and coming around the counter. "Come here."

I took a tentative step forward, not prepared for this at all. I did business with Mr. Mellark, didn't hug him. But I let him pull me in and pat my back.

"I don't think I've ever thanked you in person for everything you did for my boy."

"Well, at the return ceremony you kind of…"

"Well, yes, but that was such a rush, I hardly even…"

He stopped, looking at me.

"What are you doing still hunting, hm?"

I shrugged.

"Need something to do I guess."

He gave me a stern look. "Something illegal?" I didn't know what to say to that. Sorry? I wasn't. But then Mr. Mellark turned to the display case and slid open the back door.

"Anyway, what can I get for you?" he asked. No one else was in the shop, but I looked around before giving him a queer look.

"I'm almost positive you've got a squirrel in there for me," he said in explanation. And while I knew that he could afford something much better than squirrel now, I felt lighter at his comment. Maybe things could have a bit of normalcy to them, after all.

"Thanks," I said, letting my game bag fall off my shoulder. I pulled out a squirrel and handed it to him, which he rolled up in wax paper and slid into a pastry bag.

"He'll be good there for now," he whispered conspiratorially. "Now what about some cheese buns? Peeta tells me they're your favorite."

Of course. Oh, Peeta.

"Makes fresh ones every morning."

I purposefully don't consider the implications that go along with his saying that.

"Don't embarrass me, dad," came a voice from a corner of the shop, where Peeta emerged from a back room. He had a towel he was playing with, and paused to wipe at his forehead with his arm before smiling up at us.

"He isn't lying though, I have some in the oven right now."

It was strange seeing him like this, in his family's bakery with the smell of fresh loaves surrounding us, and lines of flour on his body instead of dirt or blood. And while it's nice, while it should be a relief to be home and safe again… this is not the Peeta I know.

"Thanks, Peeta," I say.

His father looks back at me, then decides to make his exit.

"Well, I'll leave you kids to it," he bubbles happily as he walks toward the door. He gets about three steps before he backpedals and snatches the pastry bag with the squirrel in it from behind the counter.

"Can't forget this," he winks before walking off.

"It'll be about three minutes before they're done," Peeta says, setting down the towel as he makes his way to the counter.

"How are you?" he asks, tentatively. Probably recalling those few days ago when he came to my house with some bread and saw me run out the back door. He was probably shocked to see me here right now.

"I want to talk to you," I say.

"Oh, okay," he perked up. "Do you want to…" he motioned toward one of the mismatched table and chair sets by the door.

"Sure."

We made our way over to the table, Peeta skipping ahead to pull out my chair for me. I deflated.

He sat and scooted up to the table in his chair, lying his forearms across the table as if he was about to have a serious talk.

"So… what did you wanna talk about?"

"A couple things," I improvise.

"Okay," he prompts.

I finally look him in the eyes, "But first I want to talk about you and me."

His expression doesn't change, but looks as if he's been turned to stone in order to keep it that way.

"You know, the Victory Tour is coming up," I start. "And while I'm not looking forward to… well, I don't think we should keep acting like this."

"I agree," Peeta says.

But I'm not sure he gets what I mean. So I say that.

"Katniss, I'm not sure you get what I mean," he says.

Now I'm confused.

"I'm not trying to be hostile and make you feel out of place with my coming to your house or by seeing you around town. I want us to get along, that's all."

"I do get along with you Peeta, it's just…"

"There's been this disconnect." He fills in the gap for me better than I could've. Peeta and his words.

"Yeah," I whisper.

He reaches out to take my hand, but I quickly hide it under the table.

"See?" he sounds dejected, leaning back in his chair now. "There it is."

"It's – " But what do I say? It's not you, it's me? It's not you, it's just that I've found something else that makes my gut go all crazy and I didn't have to force-kiss it until I felt that? I'm not going to say any of that. "It's different, being back."

"It is," he says, "But why don't we call a truce? No more running away, from you," he points at me, "no more… your call… from me."

"Can you not come to my house?" I ask. "Not that I don't want you there, it's just my mom is getting mixed messages, and Prim…"

He shakes his head. "No need for explanation," he says. "Done."

Peeta sticks out his hand from across the table for a handshake. I rush to meet it, and after our hands curtly confirm our agreement, they linger together just a little too long.

"Good," he says, pulling his hand away first.

I blink back into reality as he starts to push back his chair.

"Wait!" He stops mid-scoot, then pulls back up to the table.

"One more thing," I explain. "You've gotta help me with Haymitch."

"So you don't want me to leave you alone…"

"No, I do, but… Have you visited him at all in the past few days? Or seen him?" I inquire.

"No," he replies, a searching look crossing his face.

I sigh. "Neither have I. I think I pissed him off."

Peeta looks amused. "How did you piss him off? Or the better question is, when have you ever not pissed him off?"

"I…" I stopped. Peeta had a point.

"I think I know," he said, leaning back in his chair.

My neck shoots forward in surprise.

"What?"

"He was there when you were backpedaling for my benefit. You know, saying you didn't sleep in the same bed as him all of the time, that it was no big deal… He heard that."

I don't say a word.

"He was standing in the living room. I saw him when I left."

So that's what it was, then. The fact that Peeta knew this and didn't tell me was a little painful to hear. But then again, I guess I never really told him about my not talking to Haymitch. Well, I've screwed all this up pretty grandly. I let my head drop to the table and buried my face in my crossed arms.

"Ughhhhh."

Peeta didn't say anything for a minute, just let me sit. Sometimes I really like being around Peeta. He's too nice.

Then I hear his chair scrape away from the table.

"Be right back," he says.

I close my eyes in defeat.

A clatter. A sweet, sweet aroma. I lift my head and find a plate of cheesy buns in front of me. I look over to Peeta who's crossing his arms and standing next to the little table I'm wallowing at. A smile plays at his lips.

"I can bag them if you have to go."

I pushed back my chair now, pushed myself off the table, and stood.

"I need to go."

He made a grab for the plate, but I stopped him. "I don't think I can take any of those over there," I said, trying to explain more by meeting his eyes and hoping he could read what I was thinking.

"It's okay, Katniss," he almost laughs, "really."

I spin to pluck my game bag off the floor then run for the door, but turn back when I reach the doorway.

"Peeta – " I say. He is still standing there, in the middle of the bakery, platter in his hands, watching me. "Thank you."

And I take off.

oOoOoOo

I burst into the house to find Haymitch on the couch in what looked like half a trance. When the door slammed delayedly behind me, he looked up, eyes focusing slowly.

"Here she comes again," his voice crackled from his easy chair. "I hope you have an answer for me, sweetheart, else I'm gonna have to ask you to kindly evacuate the premises."

"You look terrible," I say.

"Well, haven't gotten much sleep since you saw me last," he rouses, flashing a glare up at me with red eyes underlined with purple bags. "You look pretty well rested though, dontcha?"

I didn't say a word, just let him say whatever he wanted to. I deserved it. I deserved worse.

"The question is, whose bed did you sleep in to get that precious slumber? Hmmh."

He got up, making a quick brush at the thousands of wrinkles lining his pants as if the brief motion would help. Stumbling closer, he passed my shoulder and scrunched his nose up.

"You smell like him, sweetheart. Just like a fresh batch of bread."

He continued to lumber away from me and into the kitchen, but I found my voice.

"I was sleeping in a tree and I thought I was in the Games when I woke up." He kept walking into the kitchen, but I followed him. "You remember when you sent me that first ointment for my leg?"

He turned but continued to look elsewhere, scratching his head and declining to meet my eyes.

"I was so shocked that you'd sent me something. Thought you could care less about me, when all was said and done. That I was alone in the arena. But you kept coming back with something, and it helped me hang on."

He looked up at me then. So I knew I had his attention when I continued.

"And I needed you to survive."

Something began welling up in his eyes before he chased it away.

"And you've been at the bakery."

I groaned in frustration. "Haymitch, do you not get it? Yes, I went to the bakery, but I was talking to him about you."

He gave me a hardened, challenging gaze. "About me."

"About what I did wrong! About how fucking frustrating you are! How, one minute I can read you like a book and the next I have no idea what you want!"

He lifts a hand to drag some fallen hair out of his face as he meets my eyes, something dangerous and defensive glimmering in them.

"You shouldn't have come back," he says.

I look at him like he's stupid. "How could I not?"

"I'm a screaming old wash-up who kills children for a living. I have no hope, no future. You have a star-crossed lover who's dying to make you cheese buns." He continues to stare at me, albeit stoically now.

I regard him for a minute, leaning back on my heels, arms crossed.

"Well I'm back now," I say, striding forward to pull out a chair, drop into it and swing my feet up onto the kitchen table, "and nothing you say is going to stop me."

He smirks, trying to hide it by his hand moving contemplatively around his mouth. Then he nods, two, three times.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

This time when he clomps up the stairs for the night, there's no malice in his footsteps.

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