Long chapter. Last chapter. Officially. For sure, this was really fun to write. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. xoxo

Katniss' POV

They're hugging.

Sunlight streams in through windows that surely Peeta cracked open. The aroma of the District's finest bacon and eggs pervades the air, and for the first time in what feels like forever, a real smile crosses my face.

"Are those pancakes?" I croak innocently, pretending (but not completely pretending) to rub sleep from the corner of my eyes. I focus on the two, now apart. Peeta looks mildly startled, that borderline adorable mixture of shock and curiosity that he had once worn when he heard deer knocking over plants in the garden or hearing whisks fall in the sink late at night. Of course, it could be thinly veiled PTSD, but it was still, well, adorable.

"Well are they?" I demanded politely, sliding an inflection of annoyance in for good measure. I shield my eyes as I traipse further into the sunlight. If anything, the boy needs bread—and the means to make it—and sunlight, along with flowers and smiles and paints and handholding and canvases and long hugs, his chest pressed against my back, fingers slowly stroking my hair as my sobs fade and I drift into a dreamless sleep…

"Yes." Peeta answers. "They are."

"Oh," I say. "Okay." There's a lengthy silence— one induced by the existence of pancakes, of all things— accompanied by Haymitch studying a hairline fracture in the kitchen tile and the hardness in Peeta's eyes melting.

"So. Are you guys chums, now?" I ask, wanting to break the silence. I walk over to the stove nonchalantly, giving the pancakes a looksee, as if the Games, the Capitol, and the mayhem and madness and loss and grief and pain and general bullshit happenings as of recent had never occurred. I pick up the spatula lying on the counter, giving the pancakes an experimental prod. I turn to the two of them, looking them right in the eyes.

"This will never do."

Haymitch looks relieved, but a frown darkens Peeta's face. Peeta looks thoroughly confused, but I dismiss him with a definitive swipe of my hand that makes both Haymitch and Peeta flinch. Right. Sudden movements. I had forgotten that I was holding a rather malevolent, metal kitchen utensil. Aren't we a sad, damaged lot? I also had flung batter everywhere.

"Haymitch's pancakes are better," I tease, making sure I meet Peeta's gaze. "I can already tell. Sorry, not sorry." With a grin, I hand the spatula to the man who knew what he was doing. He looks even more self-satisfied than when we kissed, if that was even possible. Smug bastard. I shouldn't feed his ego.

Peeta seems to have caught on, but his eyebrows are raised. He probably thinks that I'm insane. Well, he wasn't too far from the mark. We're all mad here. Still, I'm not about to open any wounds and rub salt in them. We were all generally peaceful, and we had come to some sort of agreement—a reconciliation at best, and an armistice at worst. I have found that I have a sick talent for picking fights and causing them—one could say that I brought down a government—but now was not the best time to exercise my talents.

"You're a good baker; I''ll give you that. Bacons and eggs look great, by the way. But the rest of this here is uncharted territory. How about I put you on OJ duty? You like orange juice, don't you?"

I get a wry smile, and a nod before he goes about his business.

I lift the glass up to my nose and make a face before setting it gingerly back down on the table.

"Really?" I ask, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Really? This early in the morning?"

Peeta smiles sheepishly and Haymitch gives me a sly grin.

"Well, " he starts pedantically, but I wave away an excuse that he has procured.

"Forget it, forget it. Dig in, guys."

Peeta looks content as he begins slicing up his fancy-shmancy Capitol-esque omelet – farm fresh eggs replete with gruyere cheese, diced ham, perfectly julienned bell peppers for color. Haymitch twirls around a five-layer deep package of pancakes, bacon and eggs on his fork, looking at me thoughtfully.

"'Dig in?' Did you just say 'dig in?'"

I shrug, surveying the smooth concrete of Haymitch's terrace. "It's what my father used to say." I look at him. "I've always wanted to say it. Of course, after he passed, I thought that I would never get the opportunity."

"Oh," he says lightly, nodding, popping his breakfast into his mouth and washing it down with a concoction that is one part coffee, one part liquor, and mostly cream. That was the end of our conversation about my father or my newly acquired vernacular.

I try to make small talk, prompting the pensive and mum Peeta into careful, light-hearted conversation. He appears more comfortable around Haymitch than he has in a while. In general, I would say, he looks more comfortable than he has in months. It makes me wonder, even in Haymitch's drunken state… Because as long as I had known him, Haymitch had been pretty adept at handling his booze.

"Status quo antebellum," I say suddenly, earning strangle looks from the two men seated across from me.

"I'm sorry?" Haymitch says just as quickly, setting down his coffee mug, his hand flying to his chest. "Did you just you just insult my mother?"

I shake my head, my pitiful, tousled, dirty, slick, limp hair tossing in the slight wind. "It's Latin—" I start but in perfect Haymitch fashion, he cuts me off.

"You don't say."

I glare at him for a bit, and a smile spreads across his face. "I'm sorry. My bad. It's the coffee. And the… continue? Pretty please, Queen President Mistress of District 12 Katniss?"

Do I sense a double-entendre? Should I feel violated? I glare at him once more, seeing the small, almost non-existent smirk on Peeta's face. I just can't with these two…"It's a term that's used when you negotiate treaties. Basically it's when the parties in conflict restore things to the way they were before the war."

For a fraction of a second, I note the strangest look cross Haymitch's face—perhaps a smile but I couldn't quite be sure. I'd have to confront him. Later. When we were alone. Although I had a feeling that we wouldn't be talking. Much.

Peeta gulps down some more of his orange juice before meeting my eyes. "It's kind of a reset button, isn't?"

"Exactly," I say, smiling. "A fresh start."

"I like that," Peeta says between mouthfuls of fruit salad. "I'm…"

There is a shift. Haymitch is now alert, attentive, waiting. Does he know what Peeta intends to say? A quick assessment tells me "no," and then my curiosity is piqued.

"Well, I can't say that I'm completely and utterly happy and fine." He swigs a bit more of his mimosa and then swigs some more. Liquid courage, Haymitch once called it. He peers over the edge of Haymitch's terrace. "I really can't say that. Because I'm not."

Being the excellent orator he is, he gives us a moment to let the words sink in, to let us hear every facet of what he has to say. Honesty, I realize. He's giving us the complete truth. Which I realize is hard, especially if you're one of us.

"But I'm happier now, actually." Another shift in tone, and I look up and I find it. That smile. That million watt smile, only a bit more modest, a bit shier, a bit quieter, but still the one that brings back the sunshine escaping through the thick forest canopies beyond the electric fence, the glimmer of coarse craft glitter on one of Prim's old tri-fold presentations, that dizzying first kiss when in the most dangerous times of my life I could simply breathe and feel safe. Feel loved.

"That's good to hear," I say. And he nods.

"And I'd like to stay here, with you guys. If that's all right."

A bit of a sinking feeling descends upon me, but I realize that it's just petty selfishness. I couldn't play house with Haymitch forever and besides, first and foremost was the fact that Peeta needed me—no, needed us—to be there for him. It was the least we could do. Besides, I can't really cook and it is quite common knowledge that despite Haymitch's cooking skills, Haymitch is the absolute supreme lazy bum.

Still, Haymitch is the first to speak. He knocks back the coffee and whiskey and cream before shouting, "Hell yeah, son! It's fine. One thing though." He drinks a bit more, and I can't help but smile at the little face that Haymitch sometimes makes as the alcohol scorches his throat – like it's pretty painful, but he's enjoying it anyways. "You really need to kick that bitch out."

The grin widens and I am dead. True sunshine after the storm. I raise my glass.

"To freedom," I say.

"From crazy bitches," Haymitch says, winking ostentatiously at Peeta and I resist the urge to smack him.

"To freedom," Peeta says finally, touching his glass against ours.

"Hell yeah!" roars Haymitch. "I think it's time for some before morning shots. P-Mel, you need something for your restored manhood. I'll hook you up." He stands up and runs into the kitchen. We hear a couple of things falling and some glass breaking and Peeta and I can't help but chuckle a little. Just like old times. Haymitch comes in, arms laden with tiny shot glasses and a bottle of some curious-looking purple liquid. "Pick three of your favorites and you can keep them. It's time to celebrate."

Peeta picks three, awkwardly, like he's twelve again. The first one is clear and decorated with a hand-painted golden laurel wreath around the bottom and the number twelve stamped in big, black letters—kind of like the uniform letters spray-painted onto wooden coal crates through industrial stencils. The second is pretty and non-descript, a thick, itsy bitsy little glass with a woven basket design around it. The last is typical – neo-classical, made of some sort of glazed pottery, blue skies and green grass colored almost garishly unto the cup.

"Excellent choice, excellent choice." Haymitch's grin is two inches short of manic. The whole scene is poignant and I can't help but feel warm and cheerful inside. I can't even remember how long it's been since I last felt like this. I spot Haymitch with a huge, crystal bottle and I make a face of mock incredulity.

"Really, Haymitch? Really?"

"Drinks on me," he jokes filling up the glasses. "Bottoms up!"

We drink once more to Peeta's freedom. And so marks a new beginning. We're making a fresh start. With a hearty District 12 seven ounces of liquid Lord-knows-what, we take one step towards harmony. That's not to say that with one drink, we erase everything—the lies and the drama and the loss and the bullshit. But we're one step closer to normal, as normal as we'll ever be. Haymitch, Peeta and I are quite the threesome, in a somewhat platonic manner. Ever since that first horrific day, that Reaping, we had each been bound to each other, for better and for worse. And yet, despite the horrors that that arose from that one particular day, we each had gained something we weren't quite accustomed to having: a real family. Not a nuclear family, by far, but a family nonetheless. The least we could do was try to stick together. We are all that we have left.

Shouting overtly flirtatious obscenities and giggling wildly as Haymitch and Peeta dance on the poor rickety table on the terrace, I can for the first time say that I am happy – or on the road to being happy. Perhaps "content" is a more felicitous term. Happy for the moment. Not perpetually happy or permanently happy. That would take years, not mere hours or days or even months. Not even medication really does the job. But we're getting there. We're getting better. And I can't say "no" to that.

"If there's a place that I could be, then I'd be another memory. Can I be the only hope for you, because you're the only hope for me? And if we can't find where we belong, we'll have to make it on our own. Face all the pain and take it on. Because the only hope for me is you alone."