AN: A new chapter for y'all! (It's a long one...:) )

Disclaimer: I don't own THG or anything, and I did use pieces of events in Suzanne Collins' version of pre-tour and pre-Quell in this chapter. None of it is freakishly-closely-related, but there it is. *disclaim'd*

Hope you like!

It's early the next morning, and before the sun even rises, Effie Trinket is at my bedside pattering me awake, saying "Wake, wake, wake! We've got a big, big, big day ahead of us, Katniss dear!"

I groan and start to roll over, wanting more than anything to get back to my dream. My dream in which Haymitch was in my bedroom instead of Effie, and he was whispering into my ear, his breath warm and smelling suspiciously alcoholic, but saying it over and over again: I love you I love you I love you. There was no way I'd choose a day with Effie Trinket over that. However, before I get a chance to thrust a pillow over my head, I see a flash of something in behind Effie's head, a glimmer of gold within the obscurity, and it catches my eye. I try to focus my eyes, forcing myself to sit up. And then I realize: It's Cinna. Cinna is here to see me.

"Cinna!" I leap out of bed and nearly have to push Effie aside to throw my arms around him. His arms clap around my back as he hugs me back, and I don't want to let go for fear that he's just an illusion. I catch a glimpse of Effie flashing me a hurt look, as if she wishes I'd hug her like that, and only then can I pull back and appreciate the fact that Cinna is here in 12.

"Katniss," he speaks in his rich, Cinna voice, "How have you been?" It's only been a few days since we've spoken on the phone, but from the look he's giving me, I can tell that my stylist wants to talk to me more than can be allowed in this room full of prying Capitol ears.

"Good," I choke out, "I've been good. Better lately." An unspoken message is sent between the two of us, a message that has been barely referenced on the phone but includes Haymitch and I and the way we are slowly starting to intertwine.

"Well I'm happy to see you in the flesh again, my Girl on Fire," he clasps my arm in amity. "I can't wait until you see the designs we've been working on. They are spectacular."

"Yes, yes," Effie breaks in, "Designs which you will be … " But she trails off, whipping her head from left to right to my bedside table and the floor before coming back to me, eyes wild. "Where's your itinerary, Katniss?"

I have no idea why she wants me to have some stupid piece of paper when she's so obviously clasping her own itinerary on that glittering pink clipboard of hers. Then again, she's probably just looking for more ways to display her disgust for me.

"Must have left it at Headquarters," I deadpan, referring to Haymitch's as headquarters just to get under Effie's skin. And maybe so as not to give away any emotional attachment I may have for the man by speaking his name.

"Well!" she bristles. "It's a good thing I came to wake you up because – "

"Deep breaths, Effemia," Cinna says, casting his golden-lined gaze to Effie, "I'll take it from here." She looks conflicted, but eventually gives.

"Don't forget, we have to have the footage collected by – "

"By eleven, it's on my itinerary," Cinna continues to soothe my frazzled escort. But Effie is already starting out the door and waving us goodbye.

"Good, good, I'll be back to check in…"

She trails off and click-clacks down the stairs. I turn to Cinna with a jump in my step. I can't wait to tell him my news, to tell him what has happened between Haymitch and I, but Cinna moves his hand to my shoulder, giving me a heavy look. "The prep team is waiting for you in the bathroom," he says, but I can tell by his expression that he means much more than just the prep team is present. I open my mouth to speak anyway, but he holds a finger up to his lips in warning. I flash back to my Games, barely six months ago, when he did motioned to me in the same way after pinning my Mockingjay pin to the inner folds of my jacket before I entered the arena.

It's a sobering, but probably much-needed reminder that, while I may be a Victor now, I'm still under the control of the ruthless Capitol.

Making small talk, Cinna leads me to the bathroom where my prep team is waiting for me. My throat drops to the pit of my stomach. Seeing this ensemble of wigs and huge colored eyelash extensions and crazy metallic outfits makes me remember another reason why I loathe the Capitol. The superfluity of it all when we districts can't even feed our families. Venia, Octavia and Flavius start babbling at me as soon as I step into the room, and Cinna puts his hand on my shoulder to calm my tensing self.

"I'll leave you in their very capable hands," he says to me, winking before turning to leave. I barely have time to shudder before my team attacks with its wax and tweezers and loofahs.

I emerge from the bathroom-turned-torture-chamber at least an hour later, buffed and shining and dressed in a pink dress made of lace that plumes out at the waist and little cap sleeves that restrict my movement. I'm wearing a big, chunky necklace and my hair has been tamed into a low bun. I feel out of my element and a little too girly for my liking, but do not dare second-guess my genius stylist. I make my way down the stairs, excited to see what Cinna has come up with for my fashion "portfolio", when I see camera crews intently interviewing my mother and sister below me. Instantly my blood begins to boil. I stomp down the stairs, flying to the throng of Capitol crewmen holding light poles and microphone poles and dressed in full-body action camera suits.

"Who said you could put them on film?" I demand, raging into their midst and roughly pushing the huge camera lenses anywhere but at my sister as I confront the guy with the clipboard asking her questions, getting her to talk, getting her to think of him as some normal guy, not a part of the horrible Capitol or the even more horrendous Games.

Effie emerges from behind a row of tech people, lips pressed together, clipboard in hand, looking ready to tackle a raging bear. Which I probably resembled in spirit at least, even if I did just get a makeover.

"Katniss, please, this is standard procedure. Home interviews, talent showcases… I can't have you challenging me at every pass."

"I'm not challenging you, I'm telling you to stop exposing my family in order to build up my so-called fame! I volunteered my life so she wouldn't have to go through this. I don't want anyone's pity, and I don't want them to…" But I have to trail off, my arm motioning to Prim and my mother. I don't want them to have to go through what I'm going through, to lose themselves to the public eye. But I could never let myself get caught saying that on camera. I look around frustratedly, and my eyes land on Prim. Prim, who's staring at me like she might be scared of me, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. I hold her gaze for a moment before I have to drop my eyes to the floor.

"Whatever," I say. I sense motion in the doorway to the living room, and look up to see Cinna coming to rest against the doorframe, folding his arms and watching. I'm suddenly ashamed. "Do what you want," I say, hurrying out of the room.

I always feel so incapable when I can't protect my family. It was the one thing I had going for me before the Games, and when I can't do that, I feel like I don't know who I am.

As I step into the living room, I can't help but wish Haymitch were here. He's usually the one getting himself into trouble with Effie and the crews and the Capitol's plans in general, and usually sticks up for me if and when I do the same. I pause in the doorway as the thought passes through my mind – Haymitch has always stuck up for me. How long has he known he loves me…? But better yet, how long had he been denying it? My mouth turns up at the corners thinking about it.

My mood improves even more when I see Cinna's handiwork – excuse me, my handiwork (cough cough). There are designs and fabrics and sketches everywhere, laid out on furniture, adorning headless forms standing on poles. Everything is beautiful, if not a bit sloppier than Cinna's usual work. That, of course, is because it was supposed to be me making everything. As usual, I'm pretty listless as the cameras begin to roll and I drift through the displays, holding up a dress here and a sketch there and reading off the cue cards a crewmember holds up for me. When they're done capturing the film, they make me read the cards again with more emotion, recording just my voice so they can write over the original film with this more colorful representation of me. What seems like hours later, it's finally a wrap, and Effie comes back to make sure we're on schedule with that damn itinerary. I'm sent back to my prep team where I'm re-dressed like a doll, put in a white dress of much the same style as the last, except a little more off the shoulder and made of a thick, sort-of-scratchy material Flavius calls wool. We'll be going outside, so I get a new coat too - of course my dad's hunting jacket would never do - and it's this light blue furry thing, shaped like an oversized dress with sleeves. My hands are even slid into white leather mittens, and a floppy hat is placed on top of my head; not over my head like any useful hat would be, but on top of it. I guess I have a long ways to go before I understand fashion. I can't complain, though, because at least I get to wear some thick, colored tights on my legs. I'm thankful I get this small measure of practical clothing, because it is cold out.

After I'm dressed to take a fashionable walk in the elements, I'm finally told what the purpose of this next segment is: to visit Peeta at the bakery, a place that Haymitch has suggested because it's "mine and Peeta's 'hangout'". It is no such thing, but I don't bother to correct anyone. I have to play the part they want me to until I can come up with a way to break out of it. Besides, they're supposedly trying to catch us in our "natural habitats", as seen by the spontaneous filming of every move I make, and I guess that I'd rather have the whole crew following me to the bakery than to Haymitch's bedroom.

We're about a block from the bakery when I start to get nervous. What am I going to do? I'll be expected to kiss Peeta when I get in there. Does he know we're coming? Does he know that I'm coming? I haven't talked to Peeta since chasing him out of Haymitch's house, and there are definitely still some ambivalent feelings between us that need airing out. We can't do that on camera, especially since it involves my loving Haymitch. My loving Haymitch. The thought still sends a shot of adrenaline through my system, and I find myself kicking up snow, pumping my arms to gather enough speed to leave my entourage in the dust. I'm running, running faster than I have since the Games, and I can tell I'm succeeding in my escape when shouts of "Slow down, Katniss, stop!" fade into the distance and I reach the buildings and store fronts that signal town.

When I burst into the doors of the bakery, the sweet-smelling air overwhelms my senses and I'm taken aback a step as I pause to inhale the delicious aroma.

"Katniss." It's Peeta, his voice slipping over to me as he appears from behind the oven and moves toward me.

"Peeta," I resopnd, and I sound breathless because of my running to get here. But I can't stop and worry about what my voice sounds like, not when I have to tell him. So I rush up to him, putting my hands on his big Peeta arms and looking him straight in the eye. He's smiling to himself, until his eyes meet mine. Then he gets dead serious, mirroring my disposition exactly.

"I love him, Peeta," I whisper. I stare into his eyes helplessly, searching for a reaction, a sign that says its okay. That he still trusts me. Or even that he hates me. Something.

"It's okay," he shrugs, lowering his eyes, "I-" But then I hear the door creak and jingle open, and before I can turn to see who it is or even register what to do next, Peeta's mouth swoops down onto mine, catching my lips in a deep kiss, his arm wrapping tightly around my waist and pulling me to him as if we've been at it the whole time. Until Peeta suddenly pulls his lips from mine, seeming distracted, like he just hears the door opening for the first time as the bell continues to jingle and a crowd of feet shuffle into the small bakery, Effie's voice clamoring over the din as she puts up a hand to check her wig, breathing heavy and trying to flick away the snow gathered the toes of her high-heeled shoes.

"Katniss, what did I tell you, you must stop – " But she stops herself, pausing to take in the scene before her before she starts smiling. Peeta's arms are still around me, and I'm sure I look mortified.

Peeta pulls away from me sheepishly. I will never get over how good of an actor this boy can be. If only I had an ounce of his talent.

"Never mind me," Effie almost giggles. Giggling? Get real, Effie.

"I have something for you," he whispers to me in a voice loud enough for the cameras to pick up, breaking our contact and moving behind the counter. I watch, moving forward to lean on the counter as he pulls a platter of cheesy buns from a warmer.

"You didn't!" I try to exclaim happily as I move to take one of the buns.

Luckily, Effie soon cuts in with direction so I can stop trying to use my horrible acting skills to convince the country of mine and Peeta's enduring love. "Katniss, if I could just have you sit on the counter..." As I move to do so, she stops me with a flicking of her hand, "no, no, no, take your coat off first!" There's always something, right?

I do as she says, and we capture footage of me enjoying Peeta's baking as we exchange lines.

"They're her favorite."

"Only because you make them!"

"Yeah, but you like these best," Peeta leans his elbows back on the counter I'm sitting on, smirking tenderly over his shoulder at me.

I have to look down at the cheesy bun I'm pulling apart in my hands so I don't give away my embarrassment as I answer, "I guess that's true."

I can only imagine the chorus of "Aww"'s our little scene will elicit from a brainless Capitol audience. It almost makes me sick to my stomach, feeling like we're going backwards in time, like Haymitch and I never loved at all, because no one acknowledges that we did, we are, and they all insist that I love Peeta. It makes me even sicker to my stomach because I can't see any way to tell the truth and remain alive. Because I know how Haymitch's family died. He did something the Capitol didn't like, and he turned around and they were gone. I know that could happen to me, to my mother and Prim, just as easily. It simply hadn't hit me until I was standing in the Mellark family's bakery, a cloud of lies and performances suddenly suffocating me.

And then I'm released. It's time for Peeta's talent filming, and I'm set free for the rest of the day. I vacate town, leaving the camera crews and the suffocation behind me as I begin running again. This time I'm not running away from something, though. I'm running towards Haymitch's.

Luckily I can afford to be this reckless because of the snowstorm that has moved over town in the intervening hours I spent in the bakery, obscuring everything so much that filming outdoor shots would be a waste of time and film.

o0oOo0o

I clomp up the stairs to Haymitch's taking them two by two, hardly bothering to pause as I shake the snow off of me before pushing open his door. I don't even take off my shoes, just follow the muffled sounds of what has to be the TV into the living room.

Haymitch doesn't look up when I enter; rather, he jerks his head up to stare at me through his stringy blonde hair after I've been standing there for couple of long moments.

"Well look at you," he sputters. He's got a glass of dark liquid in his hand and is looking at me with an odd, sad expression on his face. Cinna is sitting in the room with him, in the adjacent, misshapen chair.

I turn to Cinna, letting anger bubble up inside me to mask my confusion and distress, not only for the liquid that may be in Haymitch's glass, but for the reaction Haymitch gave me that has to be because of the ridiculous outfit Cinna had put me in.

"What is in that glass?" I demand. My hands are balling into fists at my sides.

"Calm down tiger, it's not booze," Haymitch answers, swishing his glass at me and leaning forward. I don't believe him, though. He's acting exactly like he did during my training for the Games, exactly like he does when he's drinking. He even looks like hell again. I give him a look of distain, of disbelief, then march over to him and snatch the glass out of his hand, tipping it to my lips and gulping a portion of it.

I cough up the disgusting taste. It's definitely not alcohol, as I can't feel a burning in my throat, but it's something equally disgusting, if not worse. The taste of it is what hurts.

"Okay, I believe you," I hack out, wiping my mouth on my furry blue sleeve. "But then why do you look like hell?" I keep my arm outstretched, glaring at the furry blue fabric of my coat until I decide to rip it off while I wait for Haymitch's response.

"Didn't get much sleep last night..." he trails off. But he says this softer, and as he speaks, he continues to lean forward, holding my glare, and I can fill in his meaning: without you.

Well, that's the end of my glare.

I'm about to walk over and demand that he kiss me until I see Cinna looking at me with his eyebrows raised in warning. Haymitch stretches out his arms then, faking a yawn and says, "It's getting stuffy in here," before pushing himself up off the couch. I'm standing almost directly in his way, and he brushes past me harshly slipping me an intense look.

What is up with these mood swings? I'm just about to say it when he cuts me off:

"Come on, sweetheart, we're going to stake out the next filming spot."

That's all he gives me as he stalks out of the house. That, and sweetheart has gained back all the sarcasm and derision it once held. I stand there in shock until I hear movement from behind me. I look over to Cinna, flabbergasted. His look is telling me not to be so surprised.

"Get a move-on," he says, slowly standing himself and slipping on his jacket. Forgetting that I just shed my coat, I take off after Haymitch, hoping to catch him before he disappears into the snow.

"Haymitch!" I shout after him. I can barely see him through the snow swirling like mad between us, his form hunching slightly against the onslaught, hands in his pockets, walking briskly.

I speed up, annoyed, and yank on his shoulder, trying to get him to face me. "Hey!" I shout over the wind, "What's your problem?" until he spins around and lets loose.

"What were you thinking coming into my house like that?!" Haymitch's eyes are as wild as the snowstorm we're caught in.

"The camera crew's at Peeta's!" I defend myself.

"Sweetheart," the endearment is back in the nickname, "you know how I feel about you, but nothing, no one, from the Capitol can know. We have to be careful. What we're doing is dangerous, and I know you know that, but Jesus, use your brain sometimes, will you? My fucking house is bugged now and –"

But I yank on his coat, pulling him into me as I put my mouth on his. When I feel his warm hands grip my arms, I shiver, just now realizing I forgot my coat, but Haymitch's hands are warming me, pulling me into him with a viselike grip. He looks down at me briefly and whispers, "You're not even wearing a coat, sweetheart," before his lips surge back to mine.

I can tell in his kiss that he thinks this is the last time he'll be able to do this for a long time. And maybe it should be, but I can't think like that. I try not to think, not to ruin the moment of his lips on mine, the completely unbridled emotion in this exchange, the most intensity I've ever felt in one moment in my life. And I've been through the Hunger Games, so that's saying something. Time slows, and though the wind's whipping at us, beating us down, we stay attached to each other, only pull each other tighter until I'm completely wrapped in his arms, shielded from the cold and everything else. I had asked Haymitch a night ago – was it only a night? – if this was real. Here was a physical answer to my question.

"Abernathy!" Too soon, Cinna's voice cuts through the wind towards us. Neither of us has the will to pull away, though Cinna can't see us like this. "Where are you?"

Haymitch's grip loosens, and so does the speed of his kiss, but his lips stay on mine, tender, soft. When they finally leave mine, I open my eyes to see his own fixated on me, an expression I've never seen before on his face. Cinna clears his throat, obviously behind me, but I can't pull away from Haymitch to check; I am far too comfortable here.

Haymitch, though, blinks a few times before hoarsely choking out a "Yeah" in Cinna's direction. I'm still wrapped tightly into his chest. I smirk, turning my head to see Cinna through the snow with his arms folded over his chest, holding a hand to his lips like he's trying to stop himself from laughing at us.

"Right, well," Cinna approaches us, throwing an arm around either of us and forcing himself between us. He's grinning like a kid. "It's high time we strategize about this too, huh?"