Part Three

Chapter Four

Author's Note: I was looking through my book of quotes and came across one that really resonated for the next couple of chapters: "The way we talk to our children becomes their inner voice." (Peggy O'Mara)

Peeta is sitting at his desk in the den and I'm perched on his lap. We're staring at the computer screen, reading and rereading the details, making sure we a) don't make a mistake and b) go through with it.

"We don't have to, you know."

"Yes, we do."

"Once we hit 'submit,' we can't go back. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Ready?"

"You do it."

click

We're going to Madison.

…

Dinners at Haymitch's serve a few different purposes. The obvious (for me) is keeping an eye on the old man, making sure he eats and generally knows that we care. Slightly lower on the scale of importance (but in no particular order) are cleaning, slowly returning the items we've borrowed, repairing some things in the house, doing yardwork, taking the mountains of bottles to be recycled and making sure the garbage actually makes it out to the curb at least once a month.

He'd never admit it, but Haymitch loves our visits. Oh sure, he complains and barks orders and hurries us out the moment the dishes are washed, but I know that deep down he appreciates the company. He's been alone for so many years and I don't intend on leaving him hanging, wallowing ever further in guilt and depression.

We're leaving for Madison in a few days so tonight is our last visit for a while; Peeta's grilling brats and we brought some salads from the deli. I pop open two bottles of beer and head outside, handing Peeta a drink while he mans the grill. Haymitch should be here any minute now.

Peeta turns his attention back to the grill, turning the brats. "So I've been thinking about Gale."

I swallow wrong and cough, sputtering, "What?" I wipe my mouth with my arm and try to regain my breath.

"Gale. I've been thinking about what you said and I think you're right. We should at least reach out while we're in town." He reaches for a plate and takes the food off the grill. "The chicken shit part of me wonders if Annie might consider coming along as a buffer."

I smirk and say, "That could probably be arranged at a price. You know that her weakness lies in anything apple. Pies, tarts, crisps…"

Haymitch pulls up, slams the car door and walks right past us, muttering, "Like a damn circus around here."

"Love you too, Haymitch!" I call after him. Turning back to Peeta, I reach for the plate and continue. "I'm sure Annie would be game. It'll be like old times."

He rolls his eyes. "Right, just like old times."

We walk inside and put everything on the table where Haymitch is sitting, nursing a gin and tonic. He digs in before either of us takes a seat.

"We're not leaving before 8 o'clock, so you can slow down. Chew. Swallow. Repeat. The whole bit."

He gives me a glare and reaches for the bowl of coleslaw, spooning some onto his plate. "And how do you know that I don't have plans as soon as this love fest is over?"

"Because we all know that you eat ice cream while blubbering over the DVR'd episodes of Gilmore Girls the minute we leave." Peeta snorts and I keep going. "Come on. We're heading out next week. Would it kill you to sit around for a few minutes?"

Haymitch "hmpfs" and we continue in silence for a while. It isn't awkward—it's our reality and we're used to it.

Eventually Haymitch takes a swig and clears his throat. "So, you're going home. That sister of yours finally graduating?"

"Yup. Prim's heading off to college in the fall. Kind of hard to believe, huh?"

"What about everyone else?"

"Who, Mom? What about her?"

"Yes, your mother among other people. Remember her? And I assume you have family—" he points his fork at Peeta—"that you should probably acknowledge."

Peeta wipes his mouth and sits back, looking at Haymitch eat. I give him props—it's not pretty watching him shovel food into his gullet.

"We're going to see some people, yes." He weaves his fingers and places them on the back of his neck. "It's not exactly easy."

"And what gave you the notion that it would be?" Haymitch pushes his chair back and grabs his glass, heading to the porch. Peeta stands and grabs some of the dishes but motions for me to follow my uncle. I do.

"Haymitch, can I talk to you?"

"Oh Christ." He drains his glass.

"I know that this isn't your favorite pastime. For the record, it isn't mine, either." I fiddle with my ring but eventually blurt out, "I'm scared to face all of it again, Haymitch."

He hums, mulling it over. "What exactly has you so uptight?"

"Peeta's family is really angry about everything: how I left at the beginning, how we eventually took off together. His father basically told him that we weren't welcome there."

"How is this my problem?"

"Haymitch, please."

He's tracing the condensation that has trickled down his now empty glass. "You're young, you were stupid. You did what you thought was best and I gotta be honest, you two ended up proving everyone wrong. You beat the odds. They'll see that. They will."

This is where I think Haymitch is mistaken, but I don't say that out loud. Instead, I ask, "What if they don't?"

"What are you scared of, sweetheart? Scared that that boy is gonna leave you? I've seen the way he looks at you: he's not going anywhere."

"I don't want to be something he regrets."

"So don't be. This trip is gonna be hard for him, too, so you need to get a thick skin. Show him that no matter how shitty things get, you're still next to him."

"What if—."

"What if what? What if his mom slams the door in your face? What if his brother tells you to go fuck yourself? I hate to break it to you, but you'll probably hear worse than that. But that kid?—" He motions toward the door "—He loves you more than that shit. He chose you. Don't forget that."

The screen door opens and Peeta steps out, joining me on the bench.

"Don't let him forget that either." Haymitch gets up. "I'm going to get a refill."

Peeta pulls me to his side and asks, "Don't let me forget what?"

"That we'll be fine if we stick together."

"Haven't I been telling you that all along?"

"Well, yeah." I poke him in his side. "But it's like the internet. Hearing it from my inebriated uncle makes it true."

He takes my hand and squeezes it repeatedly until I look at him. "Are you still worried?"

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. I just don't want to be the source of problems in your family. It isn't like I expect them to sweep everything under the rug, but I would hope that someday I could be forgiven, not for my sake but for yours."

Peeta nods and interjects, "You know that my family has a whole boatload of problems, so really, what we did is like number 462 of 689."

I don't deserve for him to lump my mistake into a 'we' problem, but I appreciate it nonetheless.

"Do you miss them?"

He clears his throat. "I miss Rye. I miss my dad sometimes."

"And your mom?"

"Would you think less of me if I told you 'no'?" I lean in and put my head on his shoulder. "Because I don't. Part of me would rather not see her next week, but I know that's not an option. It's weird, but she makes me feel weak; like no matter what I do, it's wrong. Maybe 'insignificant' is the right word. I'm pretty much guaranteed a full-on bombardment of shaming."

"Peeta, look at me." He holds my gaze as I say, "There is nothing about you—not your heart, your mind, your talent, nothing—that is insignificant. Don't let her turn you into someone you're not."

He pulls me in for a hug and holds me for a long time, whispering, "Thank you. I love you. I love you…" He captures my lips and I respond with kisses.

"Jesus God, get off my porch and do that crap at home!"

We guiltily break apart and get up to leave. I hug Haymitch—seriously, take a shower—and tell him when we'll be back before reminding him to pick up our mail.

Peeta and I walk away hand-in-hand. When we reach the mailbox Haymitch bellows, "Hey!" As we turn around he yells, "Don't make me regret fixing you!"

I look at Peeta and laugh. "That 'goodbye' wasn't half bad."

We head home.

…

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our initial descent into Madison, Wisconsin. At this time please turn off all electronic devices and stow any items you may have used in-flight. Flight attendants will be walking through the cabin, collecting any items you wish to discard. Please lift your tray tables and return your seats to their fully upright position."

We each remove our earbud and Peeta wraps the long cord around his iPod. He's held my hand the entire flight, while I've rubbed circles on his wrist. His leg is bouncing with nerves and eventually I put my hand on his knee, trying to calm him.

"What time is dinner tomorrow?" I'm just making conversation. Rye called Peeta and extended the olive branch, asking us to stop by for dinner at their parents' place. Well, I'm assuming I was included on that invite. Tough shit if I wasn't…I'm going.

"Six-thirty. We don't have to go though. I mean, if you don't want to—."

"Peeta, we're going. We can't hide forever."

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Dane County Regional Airport, where the local time is 7:43 p.m. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened until the seatbelt sign is turned off. You may now use your cellular phones. Please be careful when opening the overhead bins as items may have shifted during flight. Thank you for flying American Eagle. We look forward to flying with you again soon."

All around us people are calling loved ones, acquaintances, coworkers and friends, letting them know of their arrivals. Next to me, Peeta's eyes are closed. His leg is bouncing again.

It's our turn to exit the plane so I rub his arm and stand up. He follows me through the cabin and the jet bridge until we get into the terminal where he grabs me and holds me close. People stream by us, looking curiously at the couple that hasn't even made it to the baggage claim.

"I hate this."

"I know."

"I'll be fine. We'll be fine. I just want this to be over, Katniss."

A million times I've wished that I could go back in time and rewrite my crappy mistakes. If I just could have hung in there with a level head, we wouldn't be in this airport on the verge of vomiting up our nerves.

But then I remember the night of letters. I remember everything about that night. I remember Peeta telling me that this—what we had now—was what he wanted. We promised to push each other. We refused to give up. We made a deal.

The two of us stand there for a moment more before I put on a brave face and joke, "Come on. We have hotel sex to look forward to."

Peeta smiles—a real smile—and we go to collect our bags.

…

When either of us is filled with insecurity, sex is, well, purposeful. Dominance shifts repeatedly so that we each get what we need, whether that be demanding kisses, hands held captive, vulgarity, hair pulled taught, primal positions, raking fingernails, whispered endearments or shouted encouragement.

One of his hands supports me under my stomach and the other grips my hip. My head drops forward and my hair spills onto the pillow, my fingers clench the sheets.

"Oh, fuck!"

"Peeta, I—"

His hand immediately slips lower and I let out a sound even I didn't know I had in my arsenal. Peeta speeds up and begins to lose his rhythm, finally collapsing on my back and propelling us both into the mountain of pillows. We're gasping and panting but he shifts to pull me to him. It's hot—almost too hot—but we don't allow for any space tonight.

"That was—" Peeta lets out a gust of air "—ah...aha."

I don't know why I'm chucking, but I am. "Yeah. What you said."

We're finally calm and the air has significantly cooled our sweat so I move to pull the sheet lightly over us.

"I love you."

He sighs and nuzzles into my neck.

It's amazing to understand and feel the shift that's taken place between us. No longer are his worries my burden. I don't feel weighted by his insecurities, much like I don't feel weak for my own. It wasn't about obligation anymore. It's what he and I do: we protect each other.

Author's Note (because one wasn't enough): My sincere thanks to emarina, my sounding board, friend and practically-sister. Then there's Kismetff, who made a lovely banner for "Reprieve", but more importantly, talks to me about everyday, mundane Everlark. To everyone who has sent notes or reviews, please know that I appreciate it more than you will ever know.