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 still looking for a beta. Rating and violence level will go up.

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PART 8

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I can feel my eyes almost popping out of my face because of how wide they are. I can feel a chill across my skin meaning I've gone very pale. Him and me? No way, no how, never going to be!

"Grow some decent ears boy!" Mr. Abernathy snipes, "I said it would look good if you were lovers in the Capitol's eyes. If you played it, it would look good for the camera."

Oh! That makes more sense, not much but it's enough to even out my thumping heart rate. This suggestion must be viewed tactically, viewed dispassionately and our mentor just means to help… but still… I look to Hawthorne and meet his gaze, in sync we shake our heads. "No-" "Not-" we both try, but I let him press on.

In a voice that sounds like the epitome of calm rationality he says, "Not a possible plan, it would fall apart during the family and friends interview. She and I have a certain level of well-known animosity going on. There are girls back home, one especially, that will be associated with me like that but not her. For her, with all the fights there aren't any boys like that." How the hell does he know that? Yet he continues, "I think it's just my little brother that jokes around with her and that's public as well."

Thinking of Rory makes my muscles stiffen and I don't want to say this but maybe it's better to than have it bite us in the rear later. If Rory denied a scheme like that on interview… bad would not begin to describe it. "Haw-Gale," I get out, "Rory came to visit me in the Justice Building and I no longer think he was joking." His eyebrows fly up, silently asks if I'm sure, I nod and then he is looking at me again as he was last night.

Haymitch keeps switching focus from him to me and back to him again; it takes me until now to realize he's been doing it since the recap. What for? "So you're the one with the history, boy but not her. You, sweetheart, are free with only a public joke on your side. Hmm." Way to make a person feel great, jerk. "A one-sided romance is better than none. Can you act like you love him Peeta?"

A joke. That is the first thing his questions registers as in my mind however I know he means it. Me, acting like I love somebody, let alone him? It does not fully compute in my head. My face flushes and my mouth works uselessly. It takes five attempts to get out, "Why?"

Mr. Abernathy sighs, "Because both your fighting isn't going to be enough to distinguish you. The careers are better, plain and simple, neither of you are like Odair and some tributes just out shine others in the interviews. However you two have good chemistry, you are familiar enough with each other that you could pull of some sort of scheme to get more attention. More attention means more opportunity for sponsors."

I think this over logically. Fact: I want to help Hawthorne. Fact: I meant it when I said I would do everything I can to keep him alive. Fact: Anything means this should be included. Shit! That does nothing to diminish the anxiety growing in the pit of my gut. I look into this man's eyes, behind the gruffness there is something earnestly hopefully in them thus I just have to answer equally honestly then. "I don't know if that will work but I'll do anything you recommend. You will have to be very specific in what and how you would like me to act because I," my cheeks heat so much, "have no experience in this girly sort of thing." And I was sure up until yesterday I never would! Holy bagels what am I getting into?

"What, don't I get a say? Because I don't see how a crush on me is going to do anything but make things more awkward for us." If his face is slightly pink no one will acknowledge it.

"Which is why I'm the mentor and you listen to me." He states with annoyance and authority, then goes on to add, "Capitol people love to relate to tributes and the more they relate to you the more money they send you in the arena."

The hunter mulls this over then finally says, "That's sick." And I couldn't agree more. They want to know us, to like us, to feel like they can relate to us but still cry for our deaths? Ew.

Suddenly the sunlight pours through the windows, we have emerged from the mountains and the train starts to slow down. Not much time now, so best to be all in or all out; being a pansy ass wimp won't cut it. I suck up any disgust I feel, push it away for later and ask, "What would I need to do first?" Out of the corner of my eye I see my fellow tribute just watch me. Yeah, I know I sound nuts, it certainly feels insane and I pray he doesn't make it worse.

"Learn to get along with him, stick by him and we sharpen up your acting and lying. We need that perfect by the time you interview with Cesar. The biggest obstacle there will be convincing everyone you and your friend were never a couple-"

"Couple?" Shit! That came out before I could stop it.

Older eyes narrow, he does not like being interrupted. "Yes, a couple. Until the reaping I thought you were the baker's runty son dating the mayor's daughter." I don't know if I should be proud of that or not (the smothered chortle beside me does not help). "I'm sure the rest of twelve thought you were already a lesbian couple, tomboy and at the reaping you sure looked like you were stepping in for your girlfriend."

"Oh," is the most intelligent thing that comes out of my mouth. My name should be mud. Was I the reason Madge did not get asked out on dates? Oops. I had always wondered why my pretty friend didn't have guys going after her.

"Yes, 'oh.' So as I was saying you'll need everyone to believe you and she were never an item and that you like the boy in three minutes."

I bite my lip and shake my head; it seems like an impossible task. "Three minutes isn't a lot of time; I'd have to be leading the conversation not Flickerman."

"It can be done, I'll get you there, but that's just set up. In the arena when you two hook up and-" he trails off when I start shaking my head vigorously, knowing better than to interrupt him twice. "What now, sweetheart?"

"I don't want to team up and H-Gale shouldn't have to team up with me, I'll only bring him down. I'll be a hindrance not a help. "

Stereo gray eyed looks of shock again. They don't get to say anything before Trinket is ordering us to wipe our mouths and to show her our teeth to make sure nothing is in them because the Capitol station is coming up. She straightens us up quickly and I notice for the first time Hawthorne is in shiny gray shoes, black dress pants, a shiny black belt and a fine gray shirt that matches his eyes. She has him tuck in his shirt and last minute fiddles with my bangs.

She sighs and says, "Too bad there weren't pearl earrings to go with you coming from coal and twelve."

I am one of the few girls from home with pierced ears; most parents see it as putting holes in the body and therefore mutilation. The witch did it to me when I was a baby, following the Capitol style. I had little tin studs in my ears until I was seven and got in my first big fight. Anyway I look at our escort to see if she is serious. "Ms. Trinket, you do know that pearls come from the oysters of district four, right?" At her blank look I continue, "And you know that diamonds come from coal but district one has the machinery for it, right?"

She stiffens, "Yes of course. Now turn the other way so the people can see you through that window."

Yeah right, she knew. Why was I leery of her again? Then there are Capitol people and cameramen abruptly on the other side. My friendly smile is on and I wave at them. Hawthorne stiffens next to me but when Trinket presses him for something he at least smirks at them. It is a cocky and sexy smirk, so it's good enough. When the train reaches the station there are a mix of reporters, cameramen and peacekeepers on the platform. As Mr. Abernathy swears and says that they shouldn't be there, as she gives Hawthorne a verbal crash course in posture and an idea hits me. I don't have time to clear it with our mentor as the doors open but oh well.

The reporters and cameras try to swarm us like at our departure but here the peacekeepers make a three-foot gap between.

"Volunteer! Volunteer? Anything to say to the cameras, volunteer?"

Naturally the assholes hadn't bothered to learn my name. Still it's now or never. I break away from the group, face the cameras and smile. "Yes I want to say something to my friend if she is watching. It's something I forgot to say. Please keep smiling Madge, don't lose your smile no matter what. We've been best friends since we were five years old so I know you can do it if you try." I sweep my eyes over all the press people, say, "Thank you for that opportunity," nod in thanks and return to my group. Once we walk through some massive doors and leave the crowd behind Haymitch spins to pin me with a hard stare. Oops.

"Should I not have done that?"

"Not without consulting me first, sweetheart." His voice is stern but his eyes aren't too angry.

"It won't happen again," I promise. Neither Seam male seems to believe that one.

The trip to the Remake Center by car isn't bad or long, the same can't be said for the process inside. It is severely unpleasant to be naked with these Capitol whackjobs looking and most especially touching me. I want to lash out, punch them, kick them and curse at them but I can't. Before this nobody would have touched me so without painful consequences and I detest being at these fuckers' mercy.

It doesn't matter that they say nice things about how I keep my nails (short and round for fighting), how neat my cuticles are (again for fighting, so they don't spilt) or how undamaged my hair is (from keeping it in a near permanent braid under my hat). It doesn't matter that I terrify them with my bruises (which are fading fast from that medicine) or my numerous scars all over (from fighting and stitching myself back up). It doesn't matter that they are commenting that I've made their job faster on my legs and armpits by shaving so well.

What matters is that they say it in that awful Capitol accent of theirs while they touch me. What matters is that these demented freaks have touched tribute after tribute and cheered in sadistic glee for the tributes' tears, pain, blood and death are now touching me. What matters is that the pain they are inflicting on me now is but a faction of what they would be happy to dish out to me. What matters is that they will be hoping for my body, that they are touching now, to be beaten, stabbed, torn and ripped to pieces. What matters is that the more they touch me and the more they talk the less I seem to be able to find my breath.

I'm breathing is a bit fast, I know it is yet thankfully it is not so bad as to call their attention. I need to calm down and get my mind together. Abruptly I hear curses and yelling and the second I realize it is Hawthorne my composure is gone. They are touching him too, hurting him and longing for his agonizing death. No! No! No! These hideous horrid creatures should not be allowed to touch us so and still demand our torturous demise.

My breathing is too fast now and I have to sit up. Air! I'm not getting enough air and my mind is jumbled. Distantly I hear Mr. Abernathy yelling in the other room where my fellow tribute is. Oh my god he supports this! My breathing picks up another notch and suddenly hands are reaching for me, weird wretched Capitol hands. No! I twist away, leap off the table, grab a robe, slip it on and stand in the corner. I want to hurt them, I want to defend myself but I can't. Haymitch hinted before we parted the Capitol may hurt my family and Madge if I hurt their citizens. I feel so helpless! So goddamn dizzy too! Distantly I hear them calling for him and a well-groomed version of him enters with the hunter on his heals a second later.

Our mentor's eyes go wide and he might do something but Hawthorne just marches up to me, slaps his hand over my mouth and pinches my nose shut. Before I have a chance to panic he commands, "Look me in the eyes Mellark," and I do. His beautiful gray irises are hard, strong and penetrating. He lets go of my nose and I try to slow down my breathing to match his steady breaths. It takes a while, longer than I would like. Tentatively he removes his hand and whispers, "What happened?"

I whisper back even quieter since they are still here, just a few feet back from us, "Not allowed to hit or say no to the fuckers and they just touching my with their filthy Capitol hands."

He nods as if he understands perfectly and asks, "You okay now?"

I take a moment to think it over before I nod too, "Yeah, not sure what the hell that was though. I've never done that before."

"Called a panic attack," He backs up then half-orders half-challenges, "Don't girl out on me now, Mellark."

I scowl hard at him. Of all things he could have said to me! I am pissed now, as I always am when he calls me out on being a girl. Worst of all I can't refute him because freaking out over wretches like them touching me is weak and girly. I look over to the freaks, bark, "You all ain't touching me any more!" look back to him and mutter, "It's under control, Hawthorne."

He chuckles, goes back to Mr. Abernathy who does that switching from him to me thing. He shrugs, they leave; now that feels a bit surreal and pointless. Plus, I'm sure it all must have looked even more ridiculous than it felt.

The Capitol freaks make a move forward to me but I tighten my robe and form a fist. "I meant it! You aren't touching me, if there is more stuff to be done just tell me what to do and I'll do it." They look highly upset about this but the cowards don't try to come at me. They squawk about getting a peacekeeper and about the barbaric habits of District 12. To be called that by these demented nasal drips is a bit more than my frayed nerve bear so I snap, "Call the peacekeeper if you like or better yet scurry away like frightened mice if you're so scared."

As soon as the words leave my mouth I know it was too much. I should not have said such things to enemies, they seem like the witch who lives for gossip and that gave them more ammunition against me. Their shocked and uncomprehending faces confirm this; I doubt anyone has ever spoken to them like this. I sigh and realize I'm on my own; oh Haymitch is going to be so mad at me.

I get out of my robe, climb the table, grab the hose and wash off whatever gunk they put on me. That is the last thing they had talked about before I flipped out. Once I'm done I dismount the table, walk to the wall of products they have and start reading labels. A lot of these things are Capitol versions of what Mrs. Undersee has. The mayor always tries to get her nice things on special days to liven her up and because she doesn't use them much they seem to last forever. In one of her few attempts to make me more feminine she tried to explain the 'what' and the 'why' of her products to me. I did listen well to her, not because I cared for the stuff but because it was always so different to see her alert, focused and semi-happy.

I pick a bottle that says words like 'scrub' and 'deep exfoliate,' the instructions are a bit beyond me but I figure out enough to spread the goop all over me. It stings to rub in and keeping it on for the full ten minutes is no picnic. My skin is light pink when the crap washes off me and highlights a few stray hairs on my arms and upper thighs. I grab the tweezers, pluck myself and privately think it is twisted for the Capitol to want us to look pre-pubescent with the lack of body hair. Next I find a cream like the one from the train, one cream that will get rid of scars and bandages; those are slathered on where needed and I begin to wrap up.

"What are you doing?" asks the eldest woman whose name I didn't bother to learn.

Damn, it was so nice pretending they did not exist. There is a huge desire to ignore them but it's not wise and would invite more trouble than I already have. "I don't really know, I'm just guessing." I answer honestly and wonder if I've done something wrong when the skin under the scar starts to burn. Maybe that's what it's supposed to do? Anyway I finish wrapping up, start going through the bottles, and find 16 different kinds of matching shampoos and conditioners. Oh freakish god of delirium please let this be a mistake of my eyes! Nope! A second glance shows there really are that many types. I start reading the backs of labels and at least the count goes down to 6 variations.

The skin under the scar cream is really burning now; I rip off the covers away to see my skin is hot pink under it. Oops, that can't be right. Thankfully the cream washes off easily and though vibrantly pink the skin no longer looks raised by scarred puckering. There is residual burning on my fading scars but the rest of my skin is starting to protest too so time to find a lotion. I pick a gel, slop it on and after a second it stings like all hell! Shit! My teeth grit as I try to re-read the label to figure out if it was wrong but then a soothing sensation takes over. So it's supposed to be twenty minutes with this on? Easily done.

Going back to the hair stuff I pick the three types I understand the most, mix them and start washing in the sink. Nothing seems to be itching or falling out so it must a good sign. I am just about to rinse out the conditioner mix when the door bursts open and a normal non-Capitol man walks in. "Um, hello" I say automatically then regret it instantly when I see the gold paint on his eyes; he's a Capitol citizen too.

Part 8 End.

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Side Note: Sorry for the long wait, but life reared its ugly head up and bit me. I'll try to be more regular in the future. Oh and I still need a beta! The grammar for this story is really hard on me so some I really hope to get a beta soon!