An Unlikely Pair

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By: DarkGiggle

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I make no profit so please don't sue me.

Warnings: Un-beta'd and looking for a beta. Slight violence in this chapter, but it's very slight. If this level is where you are comfortable then ditch this story now. I plan to make this story very adult and very violent in the arena. Also all future warnings about the chapters will be at the end, after the chapter. I like to write good, descriptive warnings but they tend to give away any surprise so they will be at the bottom of the page for anyone that wants a heads up.

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PART 6

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Mr. Abernathy just sighed, pulled a flask from his jacket and dismissed us to bed as soon as I had set the love seat down. He claimed he needed to think, he said we were unusual tributes and a new strategy might be good. Considering that we have no other victors we didn't argue. I think it was more likely he wanted to drink but it was better than nothing.

I bid goodnight to Hawthorne then showered for far too long. I kept waiting for the hot water to run out like at home, but at 8 minutes, 15 minutes and even 25 minutes it did not. Honestly by then I was expecting the water to run out! Oh but it was delicious!

I dressed in soft blue pajamas, dive bombed the soft bed, took one glance at the parcel of cookies and got homesick. Briefly I felt pity for myself and the shortness of my life but then I remembered something important. I had let pity blind me to all the good things at home; if my life felt short it was my fault. That thought hurt me, comforted me and, incredibly, knocked me right out.

It's very early morning now, or is this still considered night? I'm a baker but this early even for me. Sleep isn't an option as I'm restless. It is because there is usually more activity going on in my life, yesterday, though it was an emotional rollercoaster, didn't even include my daily exercises. I decide to do them, but not here, it would be nasty to wake up anyone near by. The clothes from the day before are good enough. The TV car is perfect for my needs once the furniture is rearrange. Stretches, push-ups, sit ups, squats all go by uninterrupted but then a noise pulls me to the dining car.

It's Mr. Abernathy, up this soon but he's reaching for the alcohol. Great… If he goes on a bender at this hour of the morning he'll sleep 'til afternoon. Oh no, this mustn't be allowed. I let him drink one glass then on the refill, snatch the bottle away from him. His fist flies out, automatically I block with my forearm, the falling of the cup is my only warning before his other fist comes, sporting a knife. Speed is in my favor; my hand drops the bottle, grabs his wrist and shoves it off course from my neck. His free first arm rears back; again speed favors me, letting me catch his larger fist in my palm before he can begin to release his coiled limb. This brings me very close to him, my merchant sky blues to his Seam grays. He attempts to head butt me, I move my head closer to minimize the range he has. His eyes narrow but a smile slips on to my lips; this is stirring. Or it is until he shoves his leg between us and kicks me away. Landing on my ass should never be fun for me, so the laugh that bubbles up is unexplainable.

My mentor is smirking; it's half annoyed and half relieved. "Oh you're a fighter alright sweetheart. But you've still got things to learn."

"Yeah, apparently, never thought a leg would take me down."

This makes him frown, "What do you mean? Didn't you say you were a brawler? And you don't use your legs?"

It seems like a simple question with an automatic 'no' for a reply but then he'll what to know why right? The thought has to process before I can give an answer. "In the fights I've fought legs are for when we're on the ground already or some chicken shit is kicking me when I'm down. I don't use my legs because I'm fighting guys and it's not fair to kick them there."

Haymitch snorts, "Yeah, they'll thank you for being fair in the arena, sweetheart. Learn to use your legs and fast. You're a girl anyway, there's your strength." He glances to the mess on the floor. "And come clean this up."

My eyes narrow. "You shouldn't be drinking now anyway, you have Hawthorne and me to mentor."

The smirk that he sends me is a nasty one. The expression has so much arrogance, no, out right superiority dripping from it. With exaggerated ease he goes to the other side of the car, allowing me room and says, "Yeah, that's going to stop me from drinking."

I don't have anything to say to that, so I go over and start cleaning up the shattered glass, and spilt booze. It's done in a minute and I plant my feet in front of the bar blocking him from getting more.

He leans lazily on the opposite wall, as if he is totally unimpressed yet asks, "What do you think you're doing, sweetheart?" The edge to his voice is startling but now isn't the time to let it show.

What am I doing? Shouldn't the question be what is he doing? Why is he like this? Wasn't he willing to go without alcohol last night? This off-putting attitude makes me flounder so I say the most sincere thing I can. "I don't want to die in vain, you could help me help that. Hawthorne can win, please help him win. Please help me help him win. It would be good for so many people if he won."

He doesn't move an inch yet suddenly his whole frame has a stiff level of tension. His hand comes up to rub his face, rub his clenched eyes. "You're such a child. You have no idea what you're asking. Just no idea." He whispers through grit teeth.

What the hell? Where the crap did that come from? Humph. Maybe he's right, I don't understand. I don't even understand if he's angry, distressed or just bored with me at this moment. I don't understand why he wouldn't rush to help us. We are far healthier than the unfortunate Seam children he's mostly had for years. We can fight too, well somewhat, and I only want him to bring Hawthorne home. Shouldn't this be easier for him? For a while I can't think of anything to say, even as his eyes fall on me. My fingers absently find Madge's pin, fiddle with it and then I know my words. "Maybe not but I think this is the right thing to do for our district and the people I care for so please help me and Hawthorne."

Haymitch growls, seems to measure me for a moment then out of the blue asks, "Where did you get that pin?"

The pin? Oh right, he was looking at it last night. I speak before I think, "It's my best friend Madge's pin. It's her most treasured thing in the world. It belonged to her aunt, then her mother and now her. She's letting me borrow it for the arena. I think it will be nice to have her favorite thing with me there."

Mr. Abernathy sends such a glare; what the shit did I do to deserve that? His gray orbs are cold hard steel in his head, then he turns for the TV car and yells, "Get the boy," over his shoulder.

I scramble to comply, race down to Hawthorne and start banging on his door, not caring who else I wake. "Hawthorne, you need to get up! Get up now!"

"Go away Panty." He shouts back.

My mind has to push the loathed name aside before it clicks, his voice sounded wide-awake. Holy bagels that fucker is up already! "Our mentor wants us in the TV car now." I'm not patient, waiting only 15 seconds before strong-arming the door open. Instantly it is obvious patience would have been better, my eyes snap shut and my apologies sputter out; he is in the middle of changing. His grumble of pervert reddens me from head to toe.

I leave to wait in the hall with the newfound realization that it was not just his handsome face and charm the girls back home were after. Then a thought creeps up; there are a lot of girls and women back home that have more than seen him in less than his boxers. My blush is effectively killed and now I'm just itching for a fight. When I sense him behind me I just start leading the way back.

Oh just peachy, leave him alone for 2 minutes and he has a tall, full glass in hand. That it seems to be the only spirits in the car makes it unwise to make a big deal out of it but it still grates me. The half playful half mocking grin on the alcoholic's face tells me he knows my feelings on it.

Again, he is languidly leaning on the wall. "Good of you to show up boy, so-"

"Gale." The idiot interrupts and I have to hold my own tongue not to say, 'Does it really matter what he calls you when he can help keep you alive?'

The grin just spreads and he slides over the side of a chair to sit. "So now you can warm up with her instead, boy." He looks us both over once more before saying, "This is a spar so don't go full strength. Show me what you can do and how much control you have. Avoid each other's face and try not to leave marks on necks, wrists and hands, your clothes and body paint can cover the rest. You don't stop until I tell you to and," his eyes narrow, "you stop when I say stop." He let his last words hang in the air with an intense tone then nodded us to the middle of the car.

I am positively gleeful! I've monitored so many of his fights and he's done the same for a lot of mine. I've wanted to fight him for so long; however, this is even better! We aren't pals and he has never had time for sports so friendly sparring matches were out of the question for us. This is more than I've ever dreamed! I've never wanted to truly injure him yet I've craved to find out who the more talented fighter is. "You're going down, Hawthorne." My voice sounds more cheery than threatening. I move to the center and bring my fists up.

"Not a chance Mellark," his tone is oozing macho confidence, he joins me in the middle and brings his own arms up.

Oh, even just those four words get my pulse racing and eagerness throbbing in every part of me. Well Mr. Abernathy did say I need to use my legs more and he never said he would start us off. I charge in low, feint an upper cut, which he dodges easily and attempts to return with a right cross up close but I'm already dropping and kicking his support leg out from under him. He goes down, gets the air smacked out of him but instinctively jabs at me, it catches my left shoulder but it's not enough to stop my hammer fist into his sternum. More air goes out of him and he's really choking for air now; delighted I crawl on, straddle his fluctuating stomach and grab his wrists. I smile happily at him and chirp, "You're down Hawthorne." Some of my own arrogance pops up and I continue, "And here I thought you could do so much better than this."

Gray irises flash and even before he recovers he retaliates. A foot stomps the floor thrusting his hips up unevenly as his long arms stretch out, exceeding my reach and helping launch me off him. I land sideways and skid but there is no time to reorient. I lunge at him, crash into his rising form and send us down again. I don't want him standing because he has reach on me and I've taken wrestling, he hasn't. I try to get him in an armbar but he is so fast and he twists out while sending his elbow into my ribs. My breath gushes out of me, I kick out against his hip to separate us and roll away, all to buy myself recovery time.

It doesn't get much because he's up in a second to bring an axe kick down on me but I do get to my knees and block with both my forearms. Instantly his balance is thrown off, it's enough for me to shove him straight over. I try to get him in figure four leg lock; key word is 'try'. He's so fast he just pulls in his leg with me still holding it. I'm falling over him and his fist is rising to meet me, all I have time to do is shut my eyes. I know Hawthorne never ends a fight without leaving some black eyes; however, force impacts into my collarbone, spins my trajectory and puts me on my side next to him.

He rolls us, straddles me and starts raining punches. I block with my arms, stopping any that come for my face down to my chest but my stomach is getting pounded. It hurts but I feel electrified and am determined to get him too. I start only blocking with my left arm and punching back with my right. My shoulder blades are flush to floor so I can't pull back much and his face is well away yet his own belly is a great target. I hit hard, I know I do, I'm tough enough to guard with one arm and I have great aim so his fists aren't getting through like mine are; keeping this going is coasting him more than it is me. He attempts to grab my wrists and pin them down to the floor. I start laughing joyously as he catches my wrists again and again because he isn't strong enough to keep them.

Gray eyes fix on my sky blue ones before he lifts his arms into the air, locks his hands together and yank them down. Shit! That will have a lot of momentum! Taking a page from his play book I stomp my feet down, thrust my hips up and press my spine into the flat surface behind me; it unseats him but not fully, his thighs are too long for it to fully throw him. None-the-less his hands part reflexively for balance and now is my chance. I grasp both his knees, swing my legs in under his arms, press my calves to each shoulder and pull him backwards. He is fast enough to turn a fraction and get his elbow under him so it, not the back his skull, that slams down into the ground first. He still topples over.

My legs are half under him so I sit up as best as I can and drive my elbows into the tops of his thighs. He grunts, and I make to do it again when he snags one of my ankles and twists. I yelp and go limp, it's not a pain I've ever experienced. This is his opening, he reverses himself and when he is on me again we are face to face. We are grappling and he is doing freaking amazing, learning on the fly. Although his longer limbs and body certainly don't help and his speed is keeping me on the defensive, it's how steep his learning curve is that might be my undoing. I have my strength, my flexibility and my training going for me as he tries to lock me in one hold but he is learning my body's limits. With each failed maneuver, it is taking me longer to break, longer to counter and longer to roll away; he is figuring out what angles I can't bend at, what positions reduce my force and how to leverage his own power on me.

Oh god, he is so close and so persistent that we are writhing against each other. I so want to head butt him now! Damn the no faces rule! I let out a low growl that he grins at in response.

Finally all his experimenting leads him down the wrong way when he shoves himself between my thighs. He is distracted by working my arms under me so he doesn't see it coming, it also goes to show how I still am not used to fighting with my legs that it took until he does this for me to see it. Anyway with his body between my legs I jerk my thighs up, cross my ankles and start to squeeze on his ribs. The effect is immediate! Hawthorne is suddenly the one trying to escape and struggling to free himself. I smile up at him excitedly. As he releases my arms to go for my legs I bear hug him and pin them to his sides.

I really think I have him until he squirms enough to get a knee under him and roll us to the side and starts slamming my back and head into the wall. I hadn't realized we were that close. Automatically I wrench my arms away, cradle the back of my skull and shove at him. With his arms free he gets himself free of my legs and rolls some distance to catch his breath.

Okay, time for a new plan. I rise, wait for him to rise; it's not to give him a break, it's because he's made ground fighting very uncertain for me. When the wait continues and I make no move to attack he smiles so smugly it's fucking attractive. He comes after me still looking good, swings a speeding haymaker, I have to turn my head to avoid it and feel the heat of his fist pass my temple! Crap. It seems that smile is damn distracting too. That just makes it more thrilling! Instantly he turns the miss into a back fist at my cheek. I block with my right, jab at his kidney with my left, push off with my back leg and drive my knee into his solar plexus. Watching him stagger back makes me blissful and I send a roundhouse kick at his head to turn the earlier favor. He takes a move from my usual repertoire and punches directly at the side of my ankle. I stumble, completely off center, catch my hands on the wall and stay for a second from the throb in the bone. Either he was holding back or he doesn't have my precision to hit the joint between the bones and not the actual bone. I'm guessing from his previous assaults it's the later reason.

He is getting more aggressive; the two hand locked, the haymaker, his over force and this hit to my ankle. It makes me elated. I push off from the wall, pretend to come at him full tilt, cross, jab, cross, jab, jab, back off while leaving my left guard slightly lower and he takes the invitation. Practice, tons of practice, is the only thing that makes me fast enough to grab his counter strike in both my hands, twist, lock over his wrist and put him in pronating wristlock. I pull more than torque his arm but he still bends in half facing the floor. He pauses a bit then sends me a heated glare that draws a rapturous smile from me. He abruptly bends further, plants his free hand down, kicks his legs in the air. The split second the combination of lessened rotation and his sudden body weight yanks his wrist from me. His muscles bunch, the support arm extends, his legs come down, the next second he flips over and is standing, feet too wide apart but he is standing.

All I can do is gape at him, eyebrows near my hairline, silently asking, 'what the hell was that?' He shrugs with a cocky grin and I just know he pulled that move from out of his ass; neither of us had ever seen it before let alone done it.

"Yeah, yeah. Nice one handed front hand spring, now get back to sparring," snipes Mr. Abernathy.

Oops. I forgot he was there yet now I can't help looking at him hopefully. Are we doing good? Are we showing him solid skill or just potential or maybe neither? No his eyes are speckled with something… vibrant. That's better than dull or annoyed, right?

I don't get to think of it more as strong arms whip under mine, wrap around my neck and clutch me in a full nelson. Instinctively I relax and drop, trying to slip but he just follows me down. Worse, once we hit the carpet he plows me forward and I have to turn my face not to land on it. I manage to force my way from the hold but if I thought being one the floor the first time was bad that was nothing compared to now. He is on the back of my knees with his; driving them into the ground, cutting off circulation, ending articulation and making them useless. The length of his body is glued to mine, crushing the wind out of me not only with his weight but the ridiculously squashed position he has us in. My face, clavicles and upper chest are squashed into the floor, my back is bent at an absurd angle and my rear is force up. I wiggle like mad yet the most I can do is get my arms free of the lock, which he promptly wrangles back under his control so that my limbs are twisted back with my palms splayed across my scapulas.

Fuck! I'm pissed and euphoric at the same time! No one has come close to doing this to me in a year and a half, no one expect my brothers has ever forced so much out of me and I really don't want to lose… though it might not be my choice. I wriggle as it is my best option now, if I really wanted I could heave my arms free however at the rotation they are at I risk seriously hurting my shoulder sockets before the arena.

Hot breath brushes my ear, his overconfident tones have a silky quality to them. "Ready to admit defeat Mellark?"

I don't have the air to waste on words so I snarl at him. My sound is drowned out though, by a high pitched, feminine shriek. Before the sound fully registers, SLASH! cold water descends on us.

"HOW DARE YOU FORCE A GIRL, YOU HOOLIGAN! GET OFF HER THIS INSTANT! OR I'LL CALL THE PEACEKEEPERS!"

Huh?

Part 6 End.

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Side Note: Updating early really threw off my schedule but Sunday seems very far away so ta-da! I'd also like to remind everyone to be so kind as to NOT review. If you like my story that's great, tell a friend, add it to your alerts or favorites if you want to. Do anything else but review.